My heart raced as I stared at the empty bed in my daughter Amber’s room; she had been missing for a week, and each second without her was torment. Amber, my 13-year-old with blonde hair and freckles, wasn’t the type to run away—we were close, and the idea was unthinkable. As the days dragged on, my fear grew that something terrible had happened. The police tried but with no results, leaving me desperate and lost. Then, one evening, I spotted a homeless woman with Amber’s backpack—recognizable by the unicorn patch—but it was empty. In despair, I threw it down, and a note fell out: “Green House.” My heart stopped as I realized I had to find her there immediately.