I was heading to the bakery to pick up some fresh rolls for my elderly mom when I noticed something lying near the curb — a phone. Or, at least, what used to be one. Its screen was cracked beyond recognition, the frame bent and battered as if it had been run over a few times.

I’m a programmer and have always loved tech, so I picked it up instinctively. Maybe I could salvage something from it later, I thought, slipping it into my pocket without a second glance.

After breakfast, curiosity gnawed at me. I carefully popped the SIM card from the smashed phone into my own and opened the contacts. There was only one number saved: “Daughter.” Something tugged at me, an odd feeling stirring deep inside.

I hesitated, then, driven by that strange pull, tapped “Call.”
A child’s voice burst through the speaker. “Mom!”

I froze.

“I… I’m not your mom,” I said quickly, voice trembling. “Who is this?”

There was a long pause. I could hear the disappointment in her small voice, fragile like a bird’s wing. “Where’s Mom? She went to the store yesterday and hasn’t come back.”

My heart clenched. “Where do you live? I’m going to find your mom. I promise.”

She whispered something I wasn’t prepared for.

“There’s also ONE THING you should know about me.”

I sat back, breath caught in my throat. “What is it?”

“My name’s Emma. And I’m… special.”

“Special how?”

Her voice dropped even lower, like sharing a secret too heavy for a child. “Mom says I’m different. That I don’t belong with other kids.”

My mind raced as I tried to imagine what she meant. Was she sick? Was she in danger? I needed answers.