When looking at the board in front of him—filled with scribbles and arrows—Jordan felt like Charlie from "Always Sunny in Philadelphia" in the gif frequently posted when someone makes outrageous conspiracy claims. The whiteboard was borrowed from his little sister Darcy's room, where she'd used it when learning to write all the letters. But at eleven, Darcy knew the alphabet very well and had jumped at the opportunity to open up wall space for more K-pop posters. The only letters that mattered to her these days were BTS.

The board was filled with scattered notes. Jordan had hoped that scribbling down the clues would make something click, but so far no epiphanies had manifested from staring at the wall. It just looked like a misguided attempt at drawing a spider, as black arrows stretched out from the attached town map at the center, where Araminta's house and the route toward the cemetery were marked.

"Woods" was encircled to emphasize the importance of checking out the mysterious path that led into the woodlands. The lore of the hidden exit intrigued Jordan and he imagined it would have piqued Araminta's interest as well. And it was in the woods behind the house he sometimes imagined glimpsing her. While Jordan didn't think Araminta lived out there as some kind of cavewoman, the wilderness beyond the town seemed intrinsically connected to her disappearance.

"Grave?" was jotted down right above the cemetery to remind Jordan that he needed to try to find the grave Rhonda had mentioned. The one Araminta used to place lilies of the valley on. Because whoever rested there must have been important to the missing girl.

That was all he had uncovered so far. However the board also had some yet-to-be-investigated leads highlighted so he wouldn't forget.

"School" was the first entry, and his old high school was where Jordan would venture the next day to continue following the trail of Araminta. There should be someone there who remembered her even though none of their classmates went there anymore. Not that Jordan had ever seen Araminta be friendly with any of them anyway. Once, he'd seen her speaking to Valeria, the head cheerleader, in hushed tones, like they had a secret together, so perhaps he should try to find her. Although Valeria, with her high blonde ponytails and crop tops, struck him as even more intimidating than Araminta.

"Family" was written below. Jordan had tried to find contact information for Araminta's family, since he felt like an interview with someone related to her was necessary, but had so far been unsuccessful. In desperation, he'd sent a Facebook message to a woman called Christine Green, who he suspected was a relative of Araminta's. Although that theory was solely based on Christine being the only person with the same last name as Araminta whom she was friends with on the platform.

"Police" was the last note, reminding Jordan that he needed to try to find out what the official investigation into the case had revealed. Although he didn't think anyone at the police station would be willing to talk to a nosy journalist student. Which was probably just as well, since Jordan got nauseous at the mere thought of interacting with police. Their questioning of him after Araminta's disappearance had been prying, rude, and lengthy. At least he had submitted an inquiry to get the public records of the case mailed to him. Hopefully, that would contain some new information.

A loud ping from his computer took Jordan's attention away from the board. A comment had been entered in the discussion server set up by the university. It wasn't mandatory to participate in discussions there but highly encouraged since partaking in each other's work while it was created was beneficial for their understanding of the process. This particular comment came from the channel bearing Jordan's name, where classmates could drop their reactions to his podcast. Although no one had. Not until now. With bated breath, Jordan clicked on the comment. He'd noticed that his first episode had 12 plays by now, of which most were probably his own, but it appeared that at least one other person had actually listened.

"Loved listening to this! It seemed so professional. Almost like an episode of This American Life. The premise of the missing classmate is intriguing and your personal connection to the story adds an extra layer. I also admire your skillful usage of sound effects and how you effortlessly blend recorded material with narration. Great work, Jordan," it read, written by Derek Chou, whose profile pic was an artful picture of himself with rainbow butterflies in his hair.

It wasn't much, but to Jordan it was everything. Someone had partaken in his work and not hated it (or at least not said they did). And it being Derek felt particularly significant since he to Jordan always seemed so put together and worldly. He wore vintage clothing that somehow both seemed perfectly curated and like he'd just found it in his uncle's closet. He could strike up a conversation with anyone wandering the halls, from school janitors to guest professors, without ever fumbling for words. He put up his hand in class and answered questions eloquently, often impressing even the instructor with his insight. Derek wasn't just trying to be a journalist, he already was one. Truthfully, Jordan was a bit scared of him.

Yes, Jordan was scared of a lot of people. He'd been scared of Araminta. He was scared of rejection. He was scared of seeming dumb. He was scared of someone mattering more to him than he did to them. Perhaps that's why he, after almost two years in college, still wasn't close to anyone. Of course, he talked to classmates and residency neighbors. He even went to parties at times, floating on the outside of a group of acquaintances. But he didn't feel like he mattered to anyone. Because he didn't dare to let people close.

Jordan liked to blame his social incompetence on having moved around a lot during his formative years, on account of his dad's work. It wasn't until he was sixteen that the family settled in Mistwood, a quaint town in the middle of the lush Oregon woods. His parents had reasoned that Darcy and Chase needed stable schooling where they could form bonds without moving every other year. Apparently, Jordan had been the guinea pig in that regard. They'd seen their oldest son flounder socially and realized they needed to save their younger children from the same fate. At least that's the message Jordan had received from their actions.

Jordan read Derek's comment again. And again. Knowing someone had noticed his work made him eager to start working on the next episode. It made him feel seen, a sensation that wasn't common for him. Jordan was never the sun, he was just one in a sea of stars, shining less bright than many.

Not wanting to come off as too keen on praise, since Derek was perhaps just trying to be polite and nudging Jordan toward his own project, Jordan put a thumbs up on the comment. After contemplating for a moment, he also clicked Reply, writing: "Thank you for listening! The story is very personal to me and I'm glad that came through."

Perhaps the message was too generic and impersonal but Jordan didn't want to fall into the trap of being too grateful since it could make Derek feel obliged to listen to the next episode. Or he would come off like he was full of himself and thought he was all that. Which was definitely not the case. Jordan usually thought he was none of that but Derek's comment made him believe that maybe he was just a little bit of that at least.

Prompted by the engagement on his video, Jordan went to the list of all his classmates' projects to find Derek's: an audiovisual odyssey that delved into how air pollution was destroying the habitats of a certain species of rare butterfly. Jordan knew nothing about butterflies but the bright animations—which Derek had created himself—and carefully dispersed facts had him intrigued.

He was just about to write an admiring comment in his classmate's channel when a call bellowed from downstairs: "Jordan, come down for dinner!"

Realizing he was quite hungry, Jordan spun on his desk chair to follow his mom's orders. It was a good thing he was in a house where nutritious food was served at regular hours because if he'd been in his dorm he'd be surviving on nothing but coffee, granola bars, and energy drinks while completing his project. Perhaps a bag of chips to replenish his salt levels when he started to feel woozy (which the above diet may be at least partly to blame for).

Jordan turned to face a menacing shadow outside the window. The sight almost jolted him out of his chair.

After a moment to collect himself, Jordan realized that the dark shape was actually a crow, peering at him from the other side of the glass.

Was it the same crow from the other night? Jordan slowly inched closer, trying not to scare the bird. Although it did seem unusually unfettered in the presence of humans. Dark eyes observed him, not straying for a moment. Slick feathers shone in the evening sun, shifting in faint hues of blue and brown.

With only a thin sheet of glass separating him from the bird, Jordan noticed something in its beak. Something white and delicate. A flower perhaps?

Two knocks on the door called Jordan's attention away from the bird. "Are you coming?" Darcy called from the other side. "Mom told me to come get you for dinner. She muttered something about you turning deaf from all the time spent listening to your own voice."

"I'll be right down," Jordan assured his sister, not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. Apparently, he wasn't allowed to even take a moment before following orders without being called out on it.

"I'll wait right out here," Darcy replied. A thump followed as she sunk into one of the bean bags in the common area outside Jordan's attic hideout/podcast studio. "I'm not allowed to come down without you."

Jordan sighed. For his sister's sake, he supposed he needed to come out of his cave.

Turning back toward the window, the bird was gone, probably frightened by the shrill voice of a preteen. Jordan couldn't blame it.

But as he walked by on his way toward the door, he noticed something on the window sill. The flower that the bird had held in its beak. A white and delicate lily of the valley.

The same flower Araminta had often placed on an unknown grave.