As the light moved across the brick walls at the bottom of the shaft, everyone in the room fell completely silent. Scratchings were visible in the soft mortar between the bricks. Someone had used a sharp metal screw to carve tallies into the wall.

One, two, three, four…

There were fourteen distinct tally marks carved into the brickwork.

Next to the tallies, sitting neatly on a small stone ledge out of the reach of the floor moisture, was Kian’s small, spiral-bound drawing notebook. Beside it lay a small pile of candy wrappers—treats he had packed in his backpack for the festival—and an empty plastic water bottle that he had filled from the slow, clean leak dripping from the overhead copper pipe.

Detective Vance carefully bagged the notebook and brought it up to where I was standing. With trembling hands, using sterile gloves provided by the team, I turned the dusty pages.

Kian had kept a journal.

The first page bore his neat, eight-year-old handwriting: Grandma said she went to get a ladder. I am waiting right here like a good boy.

The second page: It is very dark, but I have my flashlight. I am saving the batteries.

Page four: I hear people far away shouting my name near the trees, but my voice cannot reach through the floor. I know Grandma will bring the fire truck soon.

Page ten: I miss you, Mom. I am not scared. I am staying on the dry ledge.

The entries continued for two full weeks. Fourteen days. Two whole weeks while hundreds of searchers, dogs, and helicopters scanned the northern forest miles away, guided by the false story my mother had spun to protect herself from being exposed for stealing funds from the academy. Two weeks while my mother sat in my living room, making me tea, hugging me while I sobbed, and telling me to stay strong.