Today, as usual, Emily was picking up her son from school… She’d taken time off in September just for this, so little Alfie could settle into his new role as a schoolboy. First grade, after all—he was still so small! Soon enough, he’d manage the walk home on his own, since the school was right in the next estate over—not even a single road to cross.
But Alfie wasn’t at school anymore…
«Girls, where’s Alfie? Have you seen him? He was just here!» his teacher asked the class. The girls giggled: «Alfie went to walk Sophie from Year 2 home—he’s her *boyfriend* now!»
Emily stiffened and immediately asked for Sophie’s parents’ number. It took an hour to reach them and confirm Sophie was home. She said she and Alfie had taken the bus and parted ways at her building. What happened after that, she didn’t know.
Emily waited… She couldn’t even leave the flat—Alfie didn’t have keys. Why would he? She always met him. But as dusk settled, her mother’s instinct screamed that waiting was no longer an option.
The police combed Sophie’s neighbourhood, checked every bus on the route—no one had seen Alfie. The boy was *missing*. Emily raced through the streets because staying at home was unbearable—her nerves snapped under the helplessness. But what could she do without a clue where to look?
Then, at 5 a.m., she went downstairs… In Flat 60 lived a peculiar woman—not old, but the residents all called her Mad Mary. Once, crossing paths in the stairwell, Mary had eyed Emily sideways, shaken her head, and muttered: «Shouldn’t leave the house today, love.»
«What’s it to you?» Emily had snapped back.
«Nothing to me—but it’ll go badly for your whole family.»
Emily scoffed, but that same day, her purse was nicked, her card drained in minutes. No one was ever caught (or even looked for), and she had to take out a loan just to scrape by till payday.
Now, Emily hammered on Mary’s door until it opened. She shoved her phone—Alfie’s picture glowing on screen—into the drowsy woman’s hands.
«Tell me where Alfie is!»
«Gone missing?» Mary asked, unfazed.
«Yes! Where do I look?»
«Can’t you just ring him?»
«I don’t let him take his phone to school—it’s banned. Besides, *I* always meet him!»
«Ahhh…» Mary drawled. She took the phone, nodded for Emily to follow, then slumped into an armchair, closed her eyes, and pressed both palms to the screen.
Emily’s gaze never left her. Finally, Mary opened her eyes, stared straight at her, and said:
«Your boy’s alive… Deep underground. But you won’t help him *alive*.»
«*Where is he? Tell me!*» Emily clutched the frayed hem of Mary’s nightgown.
«How should I know? I’m not Google Maps—no GPS here. I only saw through Alfie’s eyes. That’s why I’m telling you—alive, you won’t save him. You’ll never *find* him!»
«What does that *mean*?»
«It means what it means. I’ve said my piece… Choose—you or your son.»
«Witch!» Emily spat, snatched her phone, and stormed out. Mary’s indifferent voice trailed after her:
«One last bit of advice… Leave your front door unlocked.»
Emily stumbled home, shaking. What if Mad Mary was right? What if Alfie was somewhere *under the ground*? That other time, she *should’ve* stayed home…
And what did *helping him alive being impossible* mean? A minute’s dread settled in. If Alfie were fine, he’d be home by now—someone would’ve helped him. No child gets lost forever in daylight.
No more doubts. Emily grabbed the medicine box, hands trembling as she dumped pills into a cup, splashed in water. Then, remembering the advice, she unlocked the front door.
Her soul tore free instantly—like it’d been waiting. She soared, then plunged toward where Alfie’s fear had been pulling her for hours.
***********
Alfie had been bummed after walking Sophie home—he’d hoped she’d invite him in. Oh well, next time!
But now… which way was *home*? He couldn’t remember where the bus stop was. Swinging his PE bag, he wandered blindly, stumbled onto a construction site, kicked at rubble, gaped at a crane—then toppled into an open, abandoned sewer.
The fall wasn’t bad, though he’d whacked his head. He scrambled up, swallowed tears, and yelled for help.
He screamed. Jumped. Grabbed at nothing. No one heard. An hour in, he gave up.
He just stood there, face tilted skyward, hoping. But no one came.
Night fell. Alfie shivered—September nights weren’t kind. He curled up, hugging his knees, voice gone from screaming.
He waited… For *Mum*. She *always* came. The idea she wouldn’t never crossed his mind.
***********
Emily found him in seconds. Mad Mary was *right*—alive, she’d *never* have found him! But what good was that? A ghost couldn’t lift a child.
Her soul darted through dawn streets, yanking at passersby, begging them to follow. But people brushed off the unease—just a chill, nothing more.
Emily howled. No one heard. Then—a scrawny, grimy stray cat *locked eyes* with her.
She lunged, pressed whispers into its ear.
The cat *understood*. It bolted to the nearest humans—a bloke and his girlfriend.
«Lex, this cat’s proper desperate—think it wants us to follow.»
«Yeah… Might be kittens in trouble.»
They trailed the cat to the sewer. It yowled, leapt in.
The girl peered down. «*Lex—call an ambulance! I’ll ring the police. There’s a kid!*»
***********
Alfie jerked—a cat landed in his lap. He buried his face in its filthy fur. *Someone was here!*
He looked up. A man waved down.
«Mate, hang tight—we’ll get you out!»
The bloke jumped in, tried lifting Alfie, but it was too high. So he wrapped him in his jacket and waited for help.
Emily’s soul *rejoiced*—Alfie was safe! Then—a tug. The sky *yanked* her up like a magnet. No matter. *He’d live.*
********
After Emily left, Mad Mary rocked in her chair, eyeing the clock. Half an hour later, she whispered:
«Time.»
She dialled 999.
«Address is [redacted]. Overdose… Door’s unlocked.»
********
Emily woke to medics scowling.
«Another minute and you’d have been *gone*! Thank God you left the door open. But you’re *done*—psych eval, statutory follow-ups. What were you *thinking*?»
Emily stayed silent, fighting tears, straining to stand. She *knew* Alfie was in hospital. She refused treatment—then her phone rang.
She was right. Alfie sat in a ward, clinging to a bony cat. No one could pry it away—he’d have fought the Queen herself for it.
He went home to a weak but *radiant* mum.
********
«A whole year, and I still don’t get it—how’d you *hear* me that day?» Emily would ask the cat, now plump and named Muffin. They spoiled her rotten—fancy beds, gourmet treats.
And Emily never missed a holiday without bringing Mad Mary gifts, thanking her endlessly.
Finally, Mary admitted:
«That cat was a fluke… Never thought *anyone* would hear you. I just hoped you’d clock the area and save Alfie if you made it back in time. Good thing you listened—kept the door open.»
Muffin, licking a paw, grumbled in reply:
«How? I *heard* you. Simple as.»