Searching For- Rebecca Ferraz In-all Categories... -

The video was shaky, shot on a phone in portrait mode. It showed a highway at night, the kind that cuts through nothing—no exits, no lights, just the white line and the dark. The camera panned to the dashboard. The radio display wasn’t showing a station. It was showing text, scrolling slow like a stock ticker:

The search results populated.

Of course. No body, no ransom note, no grainy convenience store footage. Just a hole in the universe shaped like a woman who knew seventeen ways to tie a scarf and always hummed off-key while making coffee. Searching for- rebecca ferraz in-All Categories...

My stomach turned cold. The listing was on an estate liquidator’s site. Item: “Vintage writing desk, mahogany, minor water damage. Contains personal effects—buyer assumes all rights.” The photo showed her desk. The one she’d had since college. The one with the hidden compartment behind the middle drawer. The price: $40. The seller’s location: a storage unit auction. Her unit. The one I’d been paying for out of guilt for thirty-six months. They’d sold it without notifying me. The video was shaky, shot on a phone in portrait mode

I clicked.

Below it, a text box. A cursor blinked inside it, waiting. And beneath that, in smaller type: The radio display wasn’t showing a station

A single link. No preview, no description, just a raw URL: www.quietlight.org/ferraz