I rinsed it under the faucet, and as the grime washed away, the pattern became clear: pale blue plaid—the exact fabric of Sophie’s school uniform skirt.

My hands went numb. Uniform fabric doesn’t end up in a drain from normal bathing. It ends up there when someone is scrubbing, tearing, trying desperately to remove something.

I flipped the fabric over and saw what made my entire body start shaking.

A brownish stain clung to the fibers—faded now, diluted by water, but unmistakable.

It wasn’t dirt.

It looked like dried blood.

My heart slammed so loudly I could hear it. I didn’t realize I was stepping backward until my heel hit the cabinet.

Sophie was still at school. The house was silent.

My mind raced for innocent explanations—nosebleed, scraped knee, a ripped hem—but the way Sophie rushed to bathe every single day suddenly felt like a warning I had ignored.

My hands shook as I grabbed my phone.

The moment I saw that fabric, I didn’t “wait to ask her later.”

I did the only thing that made sense.

I called the school.

When the secretary answered, I forced my voice to stay steady as I asked, “Has Sophie been having any accidents? Any injuries? Anything happening after school?”

There was a pause—too long.

Then she said quietly, “Mrs. Hart… can you come in right now?”

My throat tightened. “Why?”

Her next words made my blood go cold.

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