He curls his hands into fists slowly, allowing himself this one deviation from his well-maintained posture. It doesn't do anything to alleviate the discomfort crawling up his spine. He misses his sister. If she were here, she'd have found some way to have them both laughing and forgetting about their uncomfortable clothes and aching feet. They wouldn't even have been caught, and if they were, Ashley would have talked their way out of it. He can't help but dart a glance over to mother and father, afraid that without Ashley even this slightest of informalities will be caught. Neither of them look his way.

He uncurls his hands, and curls them again. Mother and father do not notice. They are still busy talking with the policemen. He blinks back tears, and continues to wait. He knows the police are supposed to help with this sort of thing. He tried his best to answer their questions. He doesn't think it helped, but he tried. Mother and father don't look like they are trying. They look like they are running five minutes late. Inconvenienced. He hopes they aren't actually feeling that way. He knows he isn't great with emotions, after all. Ashley would know for sure, but she's not here. He wishes she were here, so they could figure out how mother and father are really feeling. But if she were here, then the police wouldn't be here. He wishes they would leave already, because they can't find Ashley if they are standing around asking him and mother and father questions that they don't know the answers to.

Finally, after he has curled and uncurled his hands 94 times, the policemen leave. They look at him once more, on their way out the door. They don't look hopeful, or determined. They just look sad. He thinks this is the first time in his life he's been pitied. He hates it.

Mother and father are wearing the same expression. He can't tell if he hates it more or less on his parents than on the policemen. He wants to scream as he watches mother and father approach. He wants to ask them why they have given up. He wants to ask if they ever cared about Ashley. He wants to ask if they care about him. He wants to scream so loud he can't possibly hear the answers, because the answers might be worse than not knowing.

He doesn't scream. He makes sure that his hands are loose at his sides as mother and father reach him. It occurs to him that he is scared. He was never scared with Ashley at his side, even when she dragged them into trouble. He's not in trouble now. There should be even less to be scared of. But he, for the first time in his life, is alone. And he is terrified.

Father gets down on his knees and wraps his arms around him. It feels empty without Ashley inevitably wiggling her way in. He doesn't really like hugs, but she does. It makes his chest ache. Even this piece of comfort is incomplete and ineffective without his sister. After a moment, mother joins in as well. It still feels wrong. It still feels empty. Even safe in mother and father's arms, he still feels afraid.

"I don't understand," he whispers through the tears he can no longer hold back, clinging desperately to father's shirt. "I thought the police are supposed to help. Why doesn't anyone think they will find her?"

"Have you heard of The Lost?" mother asks. "Maybe on TV or --"

"Amber!" Father cuts her off, getting to his feet. "She's twelve years old and grieving! Now is not the time!"

Mother looks at father, unamused. "Exactly. She's grieving, and she asked for answers. I'm not going to deny her that." Mother holds out a hand. "Let's at least go somewhere more comfortable first, Charlie."

He reaches out and takes mother's hand. Mother gets to her feet, and helps him up. Part of him just wants to sit there on the floor of the main entryway forever, staring at the door and hoping Ashley will come through it. The rest of him can't resist the promise of answers and a world that makes sense again.

Mother doesn't let go of his hand as they go up the main staircase and toward the private area of the house. She leads him into one of the more comfortable sitting rooms, where she lets go of his hand and sits down on an armchair, gesturing to the couch across from her. He sits. Father joins them a moment later, sitting on the couch as well and placing a hand on his knee. He is glad for the warm, grounding weight.

"The Lost are a group of people," mother begins, "but they are more accurately classified as a phenomenon. Throughout most of recorded history, there are accounts of people going missing with no evidence left behind. People still go missing for mundane reasons, but it is estimated that up to 70% of missing persons cases become The Lost."

"It can be hard to determine if a missing person is one of The Lost, but several factors increase the probability. The Lost are named not just due to the fact that they are missing, but due to the fact that they largely consist of those who are metaphorically lost. People in between places, or chapters of their lives. It is very uncommon for The Lost to be children --"

"So Ashley isn't?" he can't help but interrupt. Mother and father look at him, and he realizes a moment too late that he has been rude. He is not supposed to interrupt. Before he can apologize, mother just leans forward to put her hand on his other knee, and continues.

"It is very uncommon for The Lost to be children. However, in one specific circumstance, for reasons unknown, they can be targeted." Mother takes a deep breath and squeezes his knee. "Charlie, when twins are born, the younger twin is always Lost before they become an adult."

He feels like he is in freefall. Somehow, everything makes even less sense. Mother and father's hands on his knees are so gentle and yet they burn like fire. They are being so kind. But they knew that this would happen. "You...knew?" he whispers.

"We had hoped it wouldn't," mother says. "We loved -- love -- your sister. We did the best for her while she was with us. But yes, we knew this was a possibility."

"Take a moment if you need," father murmurs. "I know it's a lot to take in."

He nods shakily and stares resolutely at his feet. He hates how much everything suddenly makes sense. Two weeks ago, father scolded him for sneaking his favorite Rubik's Cube into a party they were attending. He still hasn't gotten it back. At the same party, Ashley snuck off into the kitchens and helped herself to half of the desserts (she had shared them with him once she returned with her bounty, of course). He had thought she talked her way out of any punishment. Turns out mother and father didn't see fit to scold a dead girl walking.

It's not fair, he thinks, and then immediately doubles over on himself and presses his hands against his mouth with a whine. How dare he be jealous of his missing sister. They treated her differently because they knew she'd be gone, and now she is. He will never see her again, and he's jealous because of a children's toy and some sweets. He's a terrible brother. At least Ashley won't have to deal with him anymore.

He gives himself another moment, curled up on the couch. Mother and father are no longer resting their hands on his knees, but he can feel their eyes on him. He knows what's expected of him, and him alone: to grow into an adult worthy of the family name. So he takes a deep breath and sits back up, placing his hands in his lap.

"Do they know what happens to them? The Lost?" He doesn't know if he wants the answers anymore. But he started this, and he wants to finish it. It's the least he can do for his sister.

"You will probably hear all kinds of theories," mother says disdainfully. "Many of them are outlandish, and even the ones that come close to the truth don't fully hit the mark. We decided a long time ago that sharing what we know with the public would likely cause panic at worst, and unnecessary meddling at best. Even with the information, there's not much the average person can do about it."

Most of what she says slips through his grasp, but there is one thing his reaching hands manage to grab onto as the words wash over him. "We?"

"We," mother confirms, looking proud. "I mentioned that the phenomenon of The Lost has been present for most of recorded history. The Lost are simply a side effect of a greater upheaval, which created a shadow world, just outside the reach of our own."

"Our understanding is that prior to this event, the world had a custodian of sorts, which protected the world with a power best described as magic. Then something evil damaged the custodian, forcing it to seal the evil away in the shadow world."

"The evil force is not content with what it had managed to do before its banishment, so in the places between, where the custodian's reach is the thinnest, it steals people from our world. That, Charlie, is what The Lost are. Victims to a sore loser desperately trying to continue a fight it can't possibly win."

"The shadow world is a dangerous place, with evil at its core. Those who are taken to be part of the army of darkness must fight to survive in a world meant to break their spirits. But many do survive, and there is hope."

"Between the damage done and the effort it took to create the shadow world, the custodian was gravely weakened. The world as we know it has not benefited from it or its magic for thousands of years. With one exception:"

"Every one hundred and fifty years, the custodian scrapes together enough magic to grant one person the ability to cross into the darkness, so that they might defeat the evil lurking within for good."

"I know all of this because it is our family that has been chosen in this fight. We keep and curate what information we know about the shadow world and the threats therein, so that when the next Chosen is granted power, they can make their stand against the dark."

He's not entirely sure that he believes what mother is telling him. It feels like something out of a book or a game. But none of that matters, because --

"Ashley is there? In the shadow world? And the Chosen could bring her back? Does someone have the power now? Or will we have to wait --"

"Deep breaths, sweetie, let your mother finish," father says, rubbing circles on his back.

"Your great-great aunt was the last Chosen," mother says. She looks him in the eye. "She was born on February 8th, 1851."

Mother goes silent. He's always liked math, and the problem in front of him isn't particularly difficult.

"It's...me?" he whispers.

"We're so lucky, Charlie," mother smiles, with tears in her eyes. "We lost your sister, yes. But you can bring her back to us. You can save her, and maybe even save us all."

He doesn't feel like a chosen one. He doesn't think he could feel any less like a chosen one than he does now, trying not to curl up on the couch underneath the heavy gazes of mother and father.

But he thinks about Ashley, alone somewhere in a world of darkness. He misses his sister. He curls his hands into fists slowly, and his fingers meet raw, crackling power.