I couldn’t accept that an abandoned backpack was the end of my daughter’s story. Late that night, I searched every inch of it and found a tiny, hidden tear with a damp scrap of paper inside—half an address and a name. I followed that fragile clue to a run-down house at the edge of town, where fear and hope collided. When I heard my name whispered and Amber ran into my arms—thin, shaken, but alive—nothing else mattered. Refusing to give up had brought her home.
