Whispers of the Innocent

3

My name is Henry Morrison. Since childhood, I've been drawn to the world of mystery and detective stories, aspiring to join the police academy and become a detective.

I once believed life would always sail smoothly.

For every major exam, Dad would always wait for me outside.

He'd lean against our old car, peering at the doors. When I emerged, weaving through the crowd to him, he'd still be looking around.

I'd call out to him, and he'd light up, patting the car seat, "All done, son? Let's head home!"

I'd hop into the passenger seat, animatedly boasting about how easy the questions were; he'd just laugh, urging me to stay humble, but his feet would pedal even more energetically, stirring up a cool breeze.

Dad driving me around, up hills, down slopes, on country roads, and dirt tracks. The wheels kept turning, through many years, his shoulders in the driver's seat growing more stooped but always strong.

—Such small, habitual moments, I took for granted, as if they were a natural law. Dad was a silent, strong pillar, allowing me to focus and push forward without distractions.

The unexpected happened in the summer of 1997, when I was 17. My dad, John, was driving me to take the SATs.

Before I entered the test center, Dad stopped me, looked at me deeply, seeming to hesitate, then finally said, "You'll do great, Henry. I know you'll make it into the academy."

At the time, I didn't notice anything off about him and took his words as typical encouragement, nodded, and walked in.

I did perform well. After the last test, I rushed out, eager to share the good news with Dad.

But he was nowhere to be found.

When that routine broke, I was left in sheer panic.

I looked around outside the test center, ran and shouted, asking passersby about an ordinary middle-aged man. But because he was so ordinary, no one took notice.

I searched aimlessly, filled with unease.

He's fine, maybe he went home first.

That's what I thought, then went home alone. But Dad hadn't gone home early either.

Dad had disappeared.

My mom said that the night before my SATs, Dad was inexplicably irritable, and they had a small argument. Maybe he left in a huff and would return once he cooled down.

It sounded strange, but it was the only explanation we had.

A man walking out sounded disgraceful. We didn't make it public, searching quietly instead. But days passed with no word.

The SATs truly became a major turning point in my life. Dad vanished from our lives right after.

I couldn't understand why he would leave us. There were no signs. Dad was always a stable, family-oriented man, honest and reliable. In his own simple way, he silently loved and protected us, just like many American fathers.

I never doubted his love. But he just left.

Mom then wondered, "Could he have gone to find your brother?"

I have an older brother, five years my senior, born with a visual impairment.

He left home early to work and never returned, just vanished like Dad.

Could that be the reason? My gut said no.

A month later, our neighbors noticed something was wrong and called the police. A kind neighbor even provided the police with a description of Dad's appearance, height, and weight.

The police came, their expressions grave. They didn't talk about finding him; instead, they collected fingerprints around the house.

The next day, they returned with a shocking secret about Dad.