I had been a preschool teacher for several years. It wasn't always easy—some days, balancing tantrums, sticky hands, and endless questions felt like a circus act—but I loved it.

"Miss Green! Tommy ate my crayon!" a little voice shrieked across the room.

I sighed, already halfway across the classroom.

"Tommy, buddy, what did we say about eating art supplies?"

Tommy grinned at me, his mouth suspiciously tinted blue.

"But it smells like blueberries!"

Children had their own way of expressing themselves. Some talked nonstop, filling the room with stories about their dogs, their favorite cartoons, or the imaginary worlds they built in their minds.

"Miss Emily, did you know my cat can do magic?" Mia declared.

"Magic, huh?" I crouched down next to her. "What kind of tricks does she do?"

"She makes my cereal disappear really fast when I leave my bowl on the table."

I bit back a laugh. "Sounds like a very talented cat."

Others were quieter, choosing to pour their thoughts onto paper with crayons, creating colorful masterpieces that only they could explain.

I peeked over Lily's shoulder as she carefully shaded in a drawing. "What are you working on?"

"A secret house," she murmured, pressing her pink crayon against the page.

A secret house? I smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

Later that evening, most of the children had already gone home. I moved between the tables, collecting scattered papers and stacking them neatly.

Then, one drawing caught my eye.

A house. A wooden house by a lake framed by tall trees. A tire swing dangling from the thick branch of an old oak. Yellow roses blooming everywhere.

I stopped mid-motion, my breath hitching—that house!

I stared at the details: the careful strokes, the precise placement of the swing, the way the flowers spilled over the grass. I knew that house.

But from where?

Turning the page over, I found a name scribbled there: Lily. A memory flickered in the back of my mind...

A few days ago, I had noticed Lily bent over a similar drawing, tongue peeking out in concentration as she carefully shaded in the trees. I had praised her work, but at the time, I hadn't thought much of it.

Now, however, something about it unsettles me.

I glanced around the empty classroom. The world outside had faded into twilight, the deep blue of the evening sky pressing against the windows. A strange, nervous energy settled in my chest.

Slipping the drawing into my bag, I whispered under my breath,

"I need to check something."

At home, I pulled an old cardboard box from the back of my closet. Inside were the only remnants of my childhood I had carried with me after leaving my foster family at eighteen.

Half-formed doodles, crayon-stick figures, scribbled names of people I had forgotten. Then, I froze. There it was. The same house. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I had drawn this house as a child.

But why?

My early years were a blur: unfamiliar rooms, different foster homes, voices that came and went. My mother had supposedly died in a car accident when I was five, and my father had refused to raise me alone. That was all I knew.

The adoption agency had made it clear: there would be no further contact with my biological family.

No records. No names. No past.

But if I drew that house, it had to mean something important to me.

So why can't I remember it?

***

The next day, I couldn't hold back any longer. I needed answers, even if I had to start with a five-year-old's version of the truth.

During free playtime, I spotted Lily in her usual spot. She sat cross-legged on the reading rug, her stuffed bear, Mr. Fuzzy, clutched tightly in her arms. I knelt beside her.

"Lily, the house you drew yesterday… do you know it from somewhere?"

She blinked up at me.