Hours crawled by. The clock on the wall seemed to mock them with each passing minute. Every unanswered call, every dead end felt like a nail being hammered into a coffin of hope.
Finally, just as dawn painted the sky with streaks of pink and orange, Joran's call was answered. It was Lisa, Sarah's best friend. Her voice, shaky with sleep and worry, confirmed their worst fears. Sarah never came over.
"We were supposed to meet at the green behind the church after dinner," Lisa stammered, "but she never showed up. I waited for hours, then called Joran, but your phone was off..."
The revelation hit Mila like a physical blow. Had something happened? Was something she hadn't told them about?
Tears streamed down her face as she relayed the news to Joran. Shame burned in his gut. He knew how much Sarah wanted to be normal, to socialize like other teenagers. Had they been too strict, too worried about the dangers lurking in the world?
Mila's frantic calls went unanswered, Joran's desperate searches turned up empty, and Tord, lost in a fog of alcohol-induced stupor, could offer little more than a vacant stare. The once peaceful apartment now echoed with Mila’s frantic pacing and Joran’s urgent phone calls to anyone who might know something. The village that had always felt so safe and familiar now seemed shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, the comforting routine of daily life disrupted by a sense of foreboding.
As night descended, the Jonsson family gathered in the small living room, the air thick with tension and fear. Mila, her eyes red and puffy from crying, clutched a worn photograph of Sara, her fingers tracing the outline of her daughter’s smiling face. Joran, his hands trembling with frustration and helplessness, stared at his phone, willing it to ring with news. Tord sat slumped in his chair, the weight of his failures bearing down on him, his mind a chaotic swirl of guilt and misery.
Together, they contacted the police. The officer who arrived, a kind-faced woman with weary eyes, called Yezda Rahimi, asked them about Sarah's habits, her friends, anything that might help. The air in the room grew thick with unspoken fears.
Officer Yezda Rahimi entered the small silent apartment confidently. The oppressive silence was broken only by the rhythmic dripping from a leaky faucet. Mila Jonsson, eyes red-rimmed from tears, sat at the worn kitchen table, clutching a dish towel. Across from her, Tord, her husband, nursed a half-empty bottle of something amber.
"Mrs Jonsson," Officer Rahimi began gently, her voice a calming balm in the tense atmosphere. "Thank you for letting me in."
Mila's lips trembled. "Of course, Officer. Anything to find Sarah."
Rahimi nodded, her gaze flickering to Tord, who hadn't acknowledged her presence. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Can you tell me when was the last time you saw Sarah?"
Mila's voice cracked. "She left for school this morning. Had a date with friends at the village green after."
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