It happened on an ordinary spring day.

Little Artyom was playing in the yard — rolling a toy car along the dusty path, chasing glimmers of sunlight. Mom was cooking lunch, Dad was fixing an old sedan in the garage. And no one noticed when the child disappeared. Disappeared — as if he had vanished into thin air.

The entire village joined the search: police, volunteers, K9 units, even soldiers combing the forest. Old barns, wells, ravines. Nothing. No toys, no clothes, no trace.

There were dozens of theories — from abduction to the supernatural. The parents refused to believe he was gone. Hope was fading, but it didn’t die.

Alex, the father, aged. His face hollowed, his gaze heavy as lead. He no longer laughed, barely spoke. But every day he searched. Alone. Traveling across the country, checking calls, leads, eyewitness accounts. All in vain.

Then — by chance.

He walked past his neighbor’s yard. The very neighbor — Nicholas. Reserved, unremarkable, with a dog that had always growled behind the fence. The dog had been gone for a month. The kennel was empty.

And suddenly, Alex stopped. Something inside him — not reason, not logic — simply nudged him.

He approached. Peered under the kennel. And froze.

There was a hatch. Carefully concealed, leading underground.

Heart pounding, Alex crawled inside. A narrow tunnel, the smell of damp earth. After a few meters — a tiny room. A mattress, a tin bowl, children’s shoes. And a notebook.

On the cover — written in a child’s hand, crooked and uneven:

“This is my home. Don’t tell him I’m here.”

His heart hammered. Alex opened the notebook.

The first lines were innocent:

“I’m scared. He said Mom is bad. That now I am his son.”

What came next was darker. Rules. Punishments. Drawings — all increasingly grim and hopeless.

Alex went outside and called the police. When the tunnel under Nicholas’s house was fully uncovered, they found several rooms. And in one of them — Artyom.

Alive. But changed.

He didn’t recognize his father. Didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He just sat in a corner, whispering rules to himself.

Alex came every day. Sat beside him. Didn’t ask questions. Just read stories. Brought candy — the very same caramel from Artyom’s childhood.

For months — silence.

And then one day, while Alex dozed in his chair, Artyom cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder. And didn’t pull away.

A week later, he spoke his first word:

— Dad.

Nicholas was no random monster. He had planned everything in advance. Watched. Waited for the moment the child would be alone. The dog had been trained — not to bark. Everything calculated.

He forced Artyom to believe his parents had abandoned him. That now he had a “new family.” He instilled lies — punishing every memory of home.

When Nicholas finally spoke during the interrogation, his words scorched the air:

— He was special. Quiet. Obedient. I thought he would forget you. I thought he’d be mine.

Alex didn’t attend the trial. He didn’t want to see that man. All that mattered was his son.

Artyom’s mother didn’t recognize him at first. He had grown, but his eyes… they were old beyond his years. The house was remodeled — old things gone, walls repainted. A new start.

One day, sitting on the swings, the boy looked up at the sky and quietly said:

— I thought you forgot me.

Alex hugged him.

— Never, son. We searched for you every single day of those five years. And we’ll stay with you as long as it takes.

And for the first time, Artyom smiled. Faintly. But truly.

Six months passed. Artyom started school. First with a tutor, then on his own. He didn’t laugh, didn’t play, but he drew constantly. Almost always the same house — underground, windowless.

Then someone else appeared nearby. First in the shadows. Then — with a face.

— It’s you, — Artyom said one day. — You got me out of the pit.

A dog appeared in the house — a puppy named Buzzy. At first, Artyom was afraid of her. Then one day she crawled onto his bed and just slept beside him.

That’s when he cried. Quietly. Silently.

— Am I home… forever?
— Forever, son, — Alex replied.

Artyom grew up to become a child psychologist. He never shared his story. But children came to him — children who had lived through fear, abuse, and loneliness.

He learned to hear the silence. Because he had once lived in it.

And now — he helped others find their way out.