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Andra-Astrid Belibou, 30 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Constanța, Romania. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.

    Lost Girl

The lake was frozen on the surface, but not enough for the ice to support a human body—especially not that of an adult, no matter how skinny she once was. There were no signs of anyone having set foot there since the first blizzard in November, which had blocked most routes, particularly those leading to the lake. But winter had always been like a sneaky fox, covering its own tracks... or the tracks of others. And regardless of how pointless it seemed to be there, this was the only place the police hadn’t checked for the missing girl.
There was little to no chance of finding footprints or any sign of her possibly drowned body—not yet, at least. But maybe... just maybe, the red wool scarf fluttering in the fir tree above him was the same one she wore in her last photo with her husband. The one taken at the winter fair, right before she disappeared.
***
Police officer Holbein had returned to the lake every day for the three years since the young woman vanished. That day seemed no different from the others. He stopped under the same fir tree where they’d found the scarf, stained with blood and strands of hair. Poor thing.
Drowning was already a cruel theory—but with the blood on the scarf, a much darker fate was presumed.
He sighed and kept walking. The lake was as frozen as it had been that December. The ice was probably just as thin—and just as deadly. A crow landed on a nearby branch, its caw breaking the heavy silence. Ironic, he thought. The place already felt like a tomb: cold, forgotten by time, and forsaken by people.
“Help me…”
And now it appeared to be haunted by ghosts.
He inhaled sharply, the cold air stinging his nostrils, then exhaled slowly, watching the cloud of breath form in front of him—imagining it could take shape, take her shape.
“Help me…”
He shook his head. The cold must have been freezing the circuits in his already damaged brain. He wasn’t just hearing things now—he was seeing them. A figure by the lake. A young woman. A snow queen… or perhaps a banshee, with only her brown hair and dark eyes distinct in the sea of white.
“I… I… cold…”
He tilted his head, frowning. One step. Then another. The figure grew clearer as he moved forward.
She was sitting on the pier, hugging her knees, reflected faintly in a patch of water where the ice was thin and the snow hadn't settled. When she lifted her head and turned her hollow gaze toward him, he saw her frozen tears and purplish lips.
Holbein closed his eyes. His obsession with the girl had to end.
“Please… cold…”
The voice was faint but familiar—too familiar. He remembered it from the home videos. Could ghosts plead for help? Or was this just another trick of his deteriorating mind?
“Plea…se, sir…”
He looked at her hand. The voice didn’t seem ethereal anymore. Maybe she was a ghost. Or maybe a ghoul. A messenger of death. But he was too tired, too consumed to care.
He took off his glove and touched her hand.
It felt like death.
But it was alive—and clinging to the warmth of his palm.
“Oh my… You’re not a ghost.”
***
The ambulance was slowed by snow-blocked roads, especially the one leading to the lake, so Holbein carried her in his arms to the nearest building. She was now in the care of doctors, while the police roamed the area, investigating—as if there was anything left to discover.
He stood apart, waiting for the car. He knew the boy wasn’t his biggest fan, but he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore Holbein’s message. Not after this.
From a distance, he watched the girl. She still had that vacant stare—expected, really—but physically, she seemed okay. The doctors said she hadn’t been out there long. But she’d been wearing nothing but a sheer white dress, soaked through, as if she’d just come out of the lake.
Impossible.
And yet...
No. He wouldn't waste energy on wild theories. She’d answer everything when she was ready. For now, he just needed to wait.
He edged closer—not too close, just enough to use his trained ears without drawing attention. Murmurs floated toward him.
Whisper, whisper…
Oh my.
He stopped eavesdropping the moment he saw the car headlights. Turning, he ran toward the taxi, halting a few steps away as the door opened.
The younger man stepped out, his face older, paler—eyes hollow, like someone who had returned from the dead and hadn’t fully made peace with it.
“Look…” the man’s voice rasped with menace, though barely above a breath. “If this is another one of your sick games, and you opened this wound just to mess with me, I swear, I’ll break every promise I made. I don’t care about your age or your connection to—”
“I found her.”
Ben froze. His breath hitched, then released in one loud exhale. Eyes shut, fists clenched.
“Where’s the corpse?”
“No, Ben.” Holbein shook his head and grabbed him by the shoulders, firm despite the height difference. “She’s alive. She’s here.”
He stepped aside.
Ben looked toward the ambulance. He squinted, straining. His vision had worsened after her disappearance—stress-induced, his doctor had said. That was four months after she vanished.
“It… can’t… It’s not her.”
“It’s her.”
Ben took a step forward, instinctively. Holbein gripped his arm.
“Wait. There’s something you need to know.”
Ben didn’t turn. His eyes were locked on the blur of white figures, white snow, white van. His vision was a mess—but that was the least of his worries.
“She doesn’t remember much.”
“Her disappearance?”
Holbein shook his head, though Ben wasn’t looking at him.
“The past six years.”
Ben finally turned.
“Ben… she doesn’t remember you.”