One night, I finally asked her softly, “Why do you always take a bath right away?”
Sophie flashed a smile that was just a little too practiced and said, “I just like to be clean.”
That answer should have eased my mind. Instead, it left a tight knot in my stomach. Sophie was usually messy, blunt, forgetful. “I just like to be clean” sounded like something she’d been coached to say.
About a week later, that knot turned into something much heavier.
The bathtub had started draining slowly, leaving a gray ring at the bottom, so I decided to clean out the drain. I pulled on gloves, unscrewed the cover, and slid a plastic drain snake inside.
It snagged on something soft.
I tugged, expecting clumps of hair.
Instead, I pulled up a wet mass of dark strands tangled with something else—thin, stringy fibers that didn’t look like hair at all. As more came free, my stomach dropped.
There, mixed with the hair, was a small piece of fabric, folded and stuck together with soap residue.
It wasn’t random lint.
It was a torn piece of clothing.
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.”
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