The Story That Found You

The Story That Found You Some stories chase you down. Others whisper when the world is quiet. We write the ones that find you when you need them most.

Original web fiction crafted to linger—one post at a time.

09/01/2025

I FOUND MY SISTER'S ROOM—BUT SHE WASN’T IN THE BED

The nurse said Room 214.

I remember because I repeated it back to her twice. “Two fourteen, right?” She nodded, distracted by her screen, like it was just another patient, just another night. But I knew something was off the second I stepped onto the floor. It was too quiet. Not hospital quiet—wrong quiet.

When I walked in, the bed was made. Neatly. Tucked corners, untouched pillow. The kind of tidy that screams no one’s been here.

But I had the text. “They’re finally admitting me. Come quick.”

So where the hell was Kendra?

I hit redial on my phone for the third time, pacing between the bed and the window. Voicemail again. My heart was pounding, not from fear exactly—more like this low-grade panic that had been building all week. Kendra had been acting weird. She wouldn’t say what the tests were for. She just kept brushing me off with, “It’s probably nothing.”

But this… this wasn’t nothing.

I cornered a night nurse and practically barked her name. “Kendra Bell. She’s supposed to be in this room. Where is she?”

The woman hesitated just a second too long.

“We transferred her earlier,” she said finally. “Downstairs.”

“Downstairs where?”

“Observation.”

“What kind of observation?”

Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. “Family’s not allowed right now. You’ll have to call in the morning.”

She turned and walked off.

I stood in the hallway for a few seconds, then headed back into the room. That’s when I noticed it—her phone, wedged between the mattress and the rail.

The last text wasn’t to me.

It was to a number saved as “Larkspur.”

No first name. No emoji. Just a single word.

“Done.”⬇️

09/01/2025

THEY LAUGHED WHEN HE FELL—SO I DID SOMETHING I’VE NEVER DONE BEFORE

I wasn’t even supposed to be at that bus stop.

I’d missed my usual ride, so I took the long way across town. I saw the old man before anything happened—he was struggling a bit with his bags, but still moving steady. I almost offered to help. Almost.

Then he tripped.

Everything spilled—groceries rolling into the street, a bottle of juice bursting open. He hit the pavement with a thud that made my stomach twist. But what got me wasn’t the fall.

It was them.

Four teenagers, maybe seventeen, standing a few feet away. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t move to help. Just burst out laughing. One girl bent over, slapping her knee. A guy pointed like it was a comedy show. The old man tried to sit up, clearly rattled, but they just kept on like it was entertainment.

And I—I just stood there.

At first.

I don’t know what came over me, but I walked straight toward them. Not thinking, just moving. One of the girls noticed and smirked like I was about to join the mockery. I wasn’t.

I opened my mouth and—🔽

09/01/2025

MY FAMILY DUMPED ME—BUT A MOTORCYCLE GANG TOOK ME IN

It’s funny how fast your life can flip upside down.

A week ago, I was sitting in my kitchen, waiting for my son to bring me groceries like he promised. He never showed. When I called, his wife answered and said, “We can’t keep doing this, you need to figure something out.” Then she hung up. Just like that.

By the next morning, the fridge was empty except for a jar of mustard and two eggs. I bundled up, grabbed my little cart, and walked toward the discount store. That’s where I bumped into them—the bikers. Leather vests, beards, tattoos, the whole thing. I almost turned right back around, but then one of them dropped a bag of cans, and I bent to help him pick them up.

He grinned at me like I’d just done him the biggest favor. Next thing I knew, they were asking me what I was buying, what I needed, if I had someone helping me out. My voice cracked when I said no. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t pity me either. They just started filling a crate with food—more than I could’ve afforded in months.

“We take care of our own,” one of them said. I didn’t even know what that meant.

Now I’m standing here with a dozen strangers who treat me kinder than my own blood. And when I told them where I live, they exchanged looks I couldn’t quite read. One of them whispered something under his breath, then turned back to me and said:

“Ma’am, we’ve got some business with your son.”

(continues in the first 🗨️⬇️)

08/31/2025

I WAS SO EXCITED TO SEE MY GRANDKIDS I NEARLY TRIPPED, UNTIL I SAW THE NOTE PINNED TO THEIR DOOR

My knuckles were still stinging from knocking so hard on my son’s front door. “Annalise! Kael! Grandma’s here!” I yelled, juggling the lasagna precariously. Finally, I heard the click of the deadbolt. My eight-year-old granddaughter, Annalise, peeked out, her face illuminated by the phone she was holding inches from her nose.

“Mom and Dad are at work,” she mumbled, not even looking up. She let the door swing open and wandered back toward the couch, sinking into a nest of blankets. Kael, who is ten, didn't even grunt a hello from his beanbag chair, his eyes glued to a tablet where tiny figures were exploding in a flash of colour. The air in the house was stale, smelling of old cereal and unwashed laundry.

I put the lasagna on the sticky kitchen counter. “I brought dinner, sweethearts. Your favourite.” No response. I walked back into the living room, my heart sinking a little further with every step. Empty chip bags and soda cans littered the floor. This was more than just messy; it felt… hollow.

“Well, aren’t you going to at least say thank you?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. Kael finally looked up, his eyes vacant. “For what?” he asked, before turning back to his game. It was then, as I stood there feeling invisible, that I saw a bright yellow piece of paper taped to the inside of the front door, covered in my son’s familiar scrawl. It wasn’t a chore list. It was a list of emergency numbers. And under “POISON CONTROL,” he had written…👇

08/31/2025

My story in the 1st cᴑmment ⬇️

08/31/2025

I FOUND OUT MY KIDS LIED ABOUT MY HUSBAND’S DEATH—AT HIS OWN FUNERAL

The casket was open, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face.

People kept telling me how “peaceful” he looked, how “he’s in a better place.” I just nodded, clutched my hands together, and stared at the wood grain on the lid like it held answers. What nobody knew—what I hadn’t told a soul—was that I hadn’t even *seen* my husband in six months.

My daughter and son kept telling me he was “too sick” for visitors at the nursing home. That he didn’t want me to see him like that. They said it kindly, with those tight fake smiles that always came out when they were hiding something. I didn’t argue. I’ve been told my whole life I’m “too emotional,” so I tried to be strong.

But now, standing there in my black dress, something felt off.

The suit he was wearing... it wasn’t his. He hated ties. I know it’s small, but that man would’ve picked his burial clothes ahead of time—he was that kind of stubborn. And then I overheard something, by accident, when my son thought I’d stepped away.

He was whispering to his sister: *“We didn’t have a choice. She would’ve stopped everything.”*

Stopped *what*?

I didn’t say anything right then. I just stood beside the coffin, my knees weak, trying not to collapse under the weight of all the things I didn’t know.

I waited until they were both busy talking to the funeral director... then I did something I don’t think they saw coming.🔽

08/31/2025

MY SON KICKED ME OUT—AND TOOK OVER THE HOUSE I PAID OFF

I wasn’t even wearing proper shoes when it happened.

He said it like it was a business deal. “It’s time, Mom. You’ll be better off in a smaller place anyway. You don’t need all this space.” But this—this run-down house with the cracked windows and the peeling paint—was the only place I ever felt like I belonged. I scrubbed the floors here with my bare hands while he was still learning how to tie his shoes.

And the worst part? I signed it over to him myself. “Just for security,” he said, back when I had a little fall and he convinced me to add his name to the deed. “In case something happens to you.” Something did happen—but not to me.

He got divorced, racked up debt, and now suddenly I’m a “burden.”

No warning. No plan. Just two trash bags shoved into my arms and a muttered “I’m sorry” that he didn’t even look me in the eye to say.

I walked four blocks before I sat down on the curb and realized I still had the spare key. Not that I had anywhere to go. My pension barely covers groceries, and I haven’t seen my other son in years. He always said I picked favorites. Maybe I did. But I never thought either of them would treat me like this.

I was halfway to the bus stop when I saw the car parked outside my house. A shiny black Lexus. And when I looked closer through the fence slats...

It wasn’t just my son living there anymore.⬇️

08/31/2025

I FOUND OUT MY SON WAS PUT ON A PLANE—ALONE—WITHOUT MY PERMISSION

I was in line at the DMV when I got the call.

“Your son just landed safely at LAX,” the woman said like it was routine.

I nearly dropped my phone.

“My what?!”

I hadn’t seen Micah in two days. He was supposed to be with his dad for the weekend, just a normal visit. I didn’t even know they were flying anywhere. I thought they were staying local—like always.

“He’s flying back home now,” she continued. “Unaccompanied minor program, everything went smoothly.”

I swear the world stopped turning for a second.

I called his dad—straight to voicemail.

Called again. Nothing.

My six-year-old was put on a plane without even telling me. He doesn’t even like flying. The last time we flew to Denver, he cried for 40 minutes after takeoff and clung to me the whole time.

And now some stranger walked him down the jetway, buckled him in, and left him there while he sobbed next to a window?

I got to the airport just in time to see him being escorted out, cheeks blotchy, holding a crushed juice box and his little Paw Patrol backpack.

I knelt down and he just kept saying, “Mommy, I was scared. Daddy said you didn’t want me.”

That was the moment something broke in me.

I’m not sure what he told the airline. I’m not even sure what lie he told Micah. But I know one thing—⬇️

08/31/2025

THEY SAID I COULDN’T KEEP MY DOG—SO I MADE A DEAL I’M STILL PAYING FOR

I’ve been out here with Dibs for almost four years. He’s not just a dog—he’s the last thing I got from my brother before he OD’d. Everyone around here knows us. Some folks hand us snacks. Some pretend we’re invisible. It’s whatever.

But last winter, the cold got bad. Like, wake-up-with-ice-in-your-hair bad. A shelter van rolled by and the guy inside said, “We’ve got a cot for you. Hot food. But no pets.”

I told him thanks, but no. Dibs and I were a package deal.

Then this woman—I never got her name—came up while I was packing up near the bridge. She had a shiny coat, talked fast. Said she worked for a “placement org,” whatever that meant. Said she could board Dibs for free while I got back on my feet. Promised he’d be warm, fed, walked daily. Gave me a paper to sign. I hesitated. She smiled and said, “You want him to freeze out here?”

So I signed.

That was 11 weeks ago.

The number she gave me stopped working after five days. The “boarding facility” didn’t exist. No one’s seen Dibs since.

I reported it to two outreach vans, a cop, and even the librarian on 8th who knows how to look up stuff. Nobody could find anything.

Then, two nights ago, I saw a flyer on a pole near the thrift store. A tiny picture of Dibs. Different name. “Available for 👇

08/31/2025

SHE CALLED THE COPS ON MY TEEN’S BIRTHDAY PARTY—IN HER SLIPPERS AND A WINE BUZZ

She marched into our driveway in a pink robe and furry slippers, shouting over the music before we even finished singing happy birthday.

It’s 8:17 p.m., a Saturday, and we’re just cutting the cake. A few teens in the backyard, pizza boxes stacked on the patio table, no alcohol, no fireworks—just laughter and one Bluetooth speaker. But Jolene (yes, that’s her real name) is already in full meltdown mode.

She claims “the bass is shaking her cabinets,” which is rich, considering she’s the one who mows her lawn at 6:45 a.m. every Sunday. I try to reason with her, offer to turn it down a notch, but she’s slurring and starts recording me on her phone like she’s auditioning for a courtroom drama. Then she stumbles on her own driveway crack, nearly eats it, and still keeps filming.

Her husband’s BMW is idling behind her with the door wide open, and I spot a half-empty bottle of pinot in the cupholder. My daughter’s friends go quiet. One of them whispers, “Is she okay?”

Before I can answer, Jolene whips around and yells, “I’m calling the police!”

And then—right on cue—we hear sirens.

Because apparently, she already did.

And when the officer walks up and sees the cake, the paper plates, and Jolene wobbling in her robe like she’s at a spa day gone wrong—he just sighs. But then Jolene does something completely unhinged: she points at my daughter and—⬇️

08/30/2025

OUR NEIGHBOR KEPT BLOCKING OUR DRIVEWAY—UNTIL MY DAD FINALLY SNAPPED ONE NIGHT

It’s the same damn car, parked halfway across our driveway again, headlights still on like it’s taunting us.

Mrs. Edvardsen from across the street swears it’s “just for a second” every time. But this is the fourth “second” this week, and now my dad’s late picking up my little sister from chess club. I’m standing in our front window watching him pace with his keys in hand, muttering things I probably shouldn’t repeat.

She does this passive-aggressive thing where she waves and says, “Oh, just grabbing my mail!” but somehow ends up chatting on speakerphone in her car, engine running, fully blocking us in. The thing is—there’s room. Her driveway’s empty. Her curb is clear. She just chooses ours.

Last week, my mom tried being nice. Left a handwritten note on her windshield with a smiley face. That night, the note was taped to our front door with “LOL” written across it in Sharpie.

So now my dad’s pacing like a caged dog. I tell him to just wait five minutes. He says nothing—just walks out the front door in his socks. I follow him to the porch, heart pounding.

He knocks once on her tinted window. She ignores him. He knocks again—harder. That’s when she rolls it down two inches and says, without looking at him, “I’m on a very important call.”

And that’s when my dad says, dead calm: “Okay. Call this number next.” Then he pulls out ⬇️

08/30/2025

I SOLD EVERYTHING TO SUPPORT MY HUSBAND’S DREAM, ONLY TO FIND OUT HE SPENT IT ON ANOTHER WOMAN

Jake always dreamed of starting his own farm, but we didn't have the money. He'd talk about it every day—how it was his lifelong dream, how our family's life would change once we had a farm.

I believed in it so much that, after selling my late parents' house, I decided to invest everything into Jake's dream. I thought it would be our fresh start.

That morning, Jake was unusually sweet—kissed me, told me how lucky he was to have me.

Feeling hopeful, I left the house and went straight to the bank. But as I waited at the bus stop, my phone rang. The name on the screen was "Alex." I didn't know anyone by that name, but I answered.

A soft voice on the other end said, "Hey, baby…"

My heart dropped. Then I heard, "Did she leave? I've been waiting for you all night…"

I panicked and hung up. I looked at the phone. It was Jake's phone.

(read the continuation in the first cᴑmment)

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1309 Coffeen Avenue STE 1200
Sheridan, WY
82801

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