I called my sister to see if she was still there. She was. We chatted and I asked her how we were brought up without any parents. She grew quiet and I knew she was trying to remember. It was the same with Rich -- a memory that should be there, that you just know you knew, but now you can't recall.
I told her to forget about it. I told her I was just joking. I told her I loved her.
I called my brother, but he didn't answer.
As I walked down the street of my hometown, I started to notice that it was more than just people that had disappeared. Houses were gone, buildings were gone. The movie theater where we had watched so many movies at was a parking lot. I walked into the library and noticed that the shelves were only half-filled. Maybe the authors of those books never existed now. Maybe the architects or the people who repaired the houses or bought the movie theater no longer existed. Maybe the disappearances were finally beginning to ripple across the world.
I wondered what that meant for me. No parents. Would I disappear, too? Would there be a white light and then I would be gone?
Would it hurt?
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