Driving alone on a foggy night, a mother sees a young girl in a torn dress, quiet and strangely familiar. As she drives closer, she notices the girl’s sad eyes, filled with secrets that might be best left unknown.
It was late, and the night seemed darker than ever. The fog hugged the car like a thick blanket, hiding everything beyond the headlights. I squinted ahead, holding the steering wheel tighter than usual.
“Just get home,” I whispered, rubbing my tired eyes. It had been a long day at work, and I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed.
I always avoided this road. I usually took the main highway, but tonight, I thought: A quick shortcut will save time.
Then, I noticed something in the distance. A shadow in the middle of the road. I slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. The outline was faint, but it was there in the mist.
“Please just be a tree or a mailbox,” I whispered, though I knew it wasn’t. As I drove closer, I realized it was a girl. She looked thin, and her white dress was in tatters.
A chill ran down my spine. Every instinct told me to turn back, but something held me there.
I cracked open the window, my voice shaky. “Are you okay?”
I stepped out of the car with a flashlight. The beam lit up her face, and I gasped, stumbling back. I knew that face. The pale skin, the wide eyes—it was my daughter.
“Emily?” I whispered, barely believing it. She looked at me, eyes empty and wide.
“Mommy?” Her voice was faint, like a distant echo.
Shock and relief overwhelmed me. It was Emily, my daughter who’d been missing for five years. She had vanished without a trace, and no one knew what had happened to her.
“Emily, oh my God… it’s you,” I stammered, stepping closer. “Are you hurt? Where have you been?”
She blinked slowly, her expression blank. “I… don’t know,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, like she hadn’t spoken in years.
I knelt in front of her, heart racing. “It’s okay, honey. It’s me. We’re going home now, alright?” I wrapped my coat around her thin shoulders and led her to the car. She sat silently in the passenger seat, staring out into the fog.
The drive home was quiet. I glanced over at her, but her face was blank, as if she were somewhere far away.
“Emily,” I asked gently, “do you remember anything? Anything at all?”
She didn’t look at me. “A room. It was dark. There was a man, but I can’t remember his face.”
My throat tightened. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. We’re going home.”
When we got home, she sat on the couch, looking around as if everything was unfamiliar. I asked if she remembered the place, but she only shrugged. Her voice was flat and empty.
“Mom,” she whispered, “I’m… cold.”
I wrapped a blanket around her, feeling her icy skin. The days that followed were tense. Emily was distant, barely speaking. The only time I heard her voice clearly was when she sang an old lullaby I used to sing to her. It felt strange because she shouldn’t have remembered it.
One day, I found her looking at old photo albums. Her fingers traced a picture of her father, Mark. He had died when she was a baby.
“Mom?” she said, confused. “I know him.”
I felt a chill. “That’s your dad, honey. I’ve told you about him.”
She shook her head slowly. “No, I know him from… the place.”
A cold wave of fear washed over me. Emily couldn’t remember Mark, but she knew someone who looked like him. It had to be his brother, Jake. They looked so alike, almost like twins.
I couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore. I needed answers.
The next morning, I drove to our old family cabin deep in the woods. It had been abandoned for years, but something felt off when I arrived. One of the windows was covered with a cloth. Why would someone do that?
I pushed the door open, dust swirling in the air. Everything was untouched except for a small room in the back. Inside, toys lay scattered, worn but well-loved. My heart sank. This was where Emily had been kept.
I called the police immediately. Hours later, Emily sat quietly with me as the officers searched the cabin. She clutched her blanket, looking small and sad.
“Mommy… I remember now,” she whispered. “It was Uncle Jake. He looked like Daddy, but different. He would bring food and hum that song.”
The police confirmed it that night. They found enough evidence to arrest Jake. He confessed, saying he had taken Emily to “protect” her, wanting her to rely on him. It was twisted and horrifying to realize he had been so close all this time.
When Emily heard the truth, she broke down, crying out the pain she had held inside for so long. I hugged her tightly, rocking her gently. “You’re safe now,” I whispered. “No one will take you away again.”
In the days that followed, Emily started to open up more. She would hum the lullaby at night, as if testing if it was safe to sing it again.
One evening, we sat together by the window. She leaned against me, and I softly hummed the lullaby like I used to. She looked up at me with a hint of peace in her eyes.
“I love you, Mommy,” she whispered.
Tears filled my eyes as I held her close. “I love you too, sweetheart. Forever.”
Which is better for cooking, gas or electric? These are some things to be aware of.
The Gas vs. Electric Stove Debate
The debate over gas stoves vs. electric stoves is ongoing. Many people prefer what they grew up with, and that’s understandable. Familiarity often shapes our choices. However, beyond nostalgia, which is better for cooking: gas or electric?
Factors to Consider
There’s no one-size-fits-all answer. Both types of stoves cook food differently. Your choice may depend on what you cook most often. Additionally, consider safety and utility costs. Let’s delve into these factors with a detailed analysis below.
Gas Stoves: Cost-Effective in the Long Run
Buying a new stove is a big investment. Comparing gas and electric stoves upfront can be tricky due to price ranges. Low-end electric stoves start around $650, while gas stoves start at $800. High-end electric stoves can cost up to $2,800, whereas top gas stoves are about $2,300.
In the long run, gas stoves are cheaper due to lower utility costs. Utility rates vary, but generally, gas is less expensive than electricity. Investing in a gas stove can save you 10-30% annually on utilities.
Electric Stoves: Safer Option
Electric stoves are safer. Gas stoves have open flames, which can be hazardous, especially for children and pets. Items like tea towels and wooden spoons near the flame can catch fire. Although electric stoves can burn you, it’s less likely. Gas stoves’ flames indicate when they’re hot, but electric burners can stay hot without visible signs. Still, electric stoves are less likely to cause burns. Plus, they don’t emit gas, eliminating the risk of leaks.
Gas Stoves: Faster Cooking
Gas stoves heat up quickly, which is why many restaurants use them. They reduce cooking time significantly. Electric stoves take longer to heat up, while gas burners ignite instantly and start heating the pot immediately.
Electric Ovens: Even Cooking
Electric ovens cook more evenly than gas ovens. Gas emits moisture, creating a wetter heat, while electric ovens provide dry heat, perfect for roasts and baked goods. Gas stoves may cook unevenly, so food should be placed away from the heat source and rotated regularly.
Gas Stoves: Versatility
Gas stoves offer more cooking options, such as flambéing, charring, and toasting, which electric stoves can’t do as effectively. This versatility makes them a favorite among restaurants and dedicated home cooks.
Electric Stoves: Easier to Clean
Flat-top electric stoves are easier to clean. A damp sponge can usually handle most messes. Even electric stoves with coil burners are manageable—remove the burner, clean the plate, and reattach. Cleaning takes just a few minutes.
In contrast, gas stoves have heavy, multi-part grates that need to be removed. Cleaning them can be time-consuming, and losing an important piece is a risk.
Conclusion
Ultimately, the choice between gas and electric stoves depends on your cooking habits, safety needs, and willingness to manage utility costs and cleaning. Both have their advantages, so consider what matters most to you in your kitchen.
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