The town of Elmsworth had always been quiet, nestled in a valley where the fog rolled in like a living thing. Most people who lived there were content with their simple lives, but there was one thing that never failed to stir the local gossip: the disappearances. Over the years, several people had vanished without a trace, and no one ever found them. The police would search for days, sometimes weeks, but they would come up empty-handed. No clues, no bodies, just silence. It started with a man named Thomas Grey, who went out for a walk one autumn evening and never returned. His wife said he had left in a hurry, muttering something about "the old place." The locals knew what she meant—the abandoned mill on the edge of town, long since closed and forgotten. It had stood for over a hundred years, its windows broken, its doors rusted shut. No one dared go near it, not even children. But Thomas had gone anyway, and he was never seen again. A year later, a young girl named Lila ran off after school, chasing a butterfly she claimed was "calling her." Her mother searched the woods, called the sheriff, and even spread flyers around town. Nothing. Just like before. Then, two months later, a fisherman found a pair of old boots by the river, muddy and worn, but no body. He reported it, and the story began to spiral again. People started to whisper that the mill was cursed, that those who entered it never came back. Some said it was haunted by the ghosts of workers who died during the mill’s heyday. Others believed it was a portal to another world, a place where time didn’t work the same way. No one could prove it, but the stories kept growing. One day, a new family moved into town—Eleanor and her son, Jamie. They were outsiders, fresh from the city, and they didn’t know the legends. Eleanor was a writer, researching local folklore for a book. She asked questions, visited the mill, and took notes. At first, the townspeople were wary, but she was polite and respectful, so they let her be. Jamie, however, was different. He was fascinated by the stories. He would sit by the river, staring at the water, and talk about things he couldn’t explain. One night, he told his mother that he had seen a figure in the fog near the mill, standing still as a statue. Eleanor laughed it off, thinking it was just a child’s imagination. But the next morning, Jamie was gone. Eleanor searched the house, the streets, the woods. She even went to the mill, calling his name. There was no answer. The townspeople watched from a distance, some with pity, others with fear. This time, the sheriff didn’t even bother to search. He simply said, “He’s gone the same way as the others.” But Eleanor refused to give up. She spent nights in the mill, sitting in the dark, listening for any sign of her son. She found old records, faded maps, and strange symbols carved into the walls. One symbol looked like an eye, and it was always placed near the entrance. She wrote about it in her journal, hoping someone would understand. Then, one night, she heard a voice. Not loud, but clear, speaking in a language she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t threatening, just... inviting. She followed the sound, deeper into the mill, until she reached a hidden room. Inside, there was a mirror, cracked and dusty, but when she looked into it, she saw not her reflection, but a different version of herself—older, tired, and smiling. She reached out, and the mirror rippled like water. For a moment, she felt weightless, as if she were slipping through time. When she opened her eyes, she was back in the room, but the door was locked. And the mirror showed a different image now: Jamie, standing on the other side, looking at her with wide, frightened eyes. She screamed, but no one heard. The townspeople never found her either. Only her journal remained, filled with entries about the mirror, the symbols, and the whispers in the fog. The last page read: *"I think the mill doesn't take people. It waits for them. And when they're ready, it shows them what they've been searching for all along."*