I’ve never seen a school bus. Never had a birthday party. Never tasted pizza.

My name is Lark. I’m seventeen. And until two weeks ago, I thought I was born in these woods.

My “dad”—I always called him Thorn—built our cabin with his own hands. No electricity, no plumbing. We lived by firelight and moonlight. He taught me to fish with a sharpened stick, to trap rabbits, to read clouds like road signs.

I never questioned why we were alone. He said the world outside was poison—loud, dangerous, fake. He said people out there didn’t feel things the way we do.

I believed him.

But then one night, I saw the sky blinking red and blue through the trees. A noise I’d never heard—like screaming machines. Thorn grabbed his bow, shoved a pack at me, and told me to run east until the stream curved south. Not to stop. Not to turn around.

I ran.

I don’t know how long I wandered. Days, maybe. A park ranger found me sleeping under a pine. She gave me water, asked my name, where I lived. I told her. She went still.

Now I’m in a warm room with buzzing lights and too-white walls. They say I was kidnapped when I was two. My real name is Sadie Conroy. My face is all over the news.

There are people waiting outside this door who say they’re my parents. They’re crying.

But I don’t feel anything. I just keep thinking about Thorn. About how he taught me to braid rope from bark. About how his hands always shook after he touched the old locket he kept hidden under the floorboard.

And about what he whispered, the last time I saw him:

“Don’t let them tell you who you are.”

I don’t know if he was a villain. Or if he was saving me from something I haven’t seen yet.

But I’m about to open that door.

And everything is about to change.

———

The woman who pulls me into her arms smells like laundry detergent and peppermint. Her voice cracks as she says my name—Sadie—like it’s a prayer she’s whispered every night for fifteen years.

The man behind her tries to stay strong, but I can tell he’s barely holding it together. His hands shake when he touches my shoulder, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

I let them hug me, but it feels like I’m watching it happen to someone else.

They drive me to a house with yellow siding and wind chimes. There’s a dog—Zeppo—who jumps on me like I’m his long-lost sister. My room is still decorated like a toddler’s. Pink walls. A faded rocking horse. There’s a shelf with old picture books and a drawing I supposedly made when I was two.

Nothing looks familiar.

For the first week, everyone tiptoes around me like I’m glass. They don’t know if they should talk about the woods. They ask questions gently—Did he ever hurt you? Did he ever say why?

He never did.

He never said anything about other people, not really. He told me stories, but they were always about animals or trees. I used to ask about moms, about babies. He’d go quiet. Once, I remember asking why I didn’t look like him. He said, You look like yourself, Lark. That’s enough.

I want to hate him. I think I should. But I can’t.

One day, I ask if they have the locket. The one Thorn always kept hidden.

They do. The police took it when they arrested him. It was in his pocket when they found him walking near the edge of the forest. They said he didn’t resist. Just handed over his bow and said, She’s safe now.

The locket has a picture inside. Two adults—my real parents—and a baby that looks like me. My mom says it was stolen from her nightstand the night I vanished.

I ask to keep it.

She hesitates, then nods.

School is weird. Everyone stares at me like I’m some kind of freak show. Forest Girl, they whisper. Someone writes “Tarzan’s girlfriend” on my locker.

I don’t care. I’ve skinned deer with my bare hands. Some kid in skinny jeans isn’t going to scare me.

But I still eat lunch alone.

I miss silence. I miss the way the trees sounded in the wind. I miss knowing what the clouds meant. I miss Thorn.

One afternoon, a girl named Miren slides into the seat across from me. She doesn’t say much—just offers half her sandwich and says, People are stupid.

We start hanging out after that. She doesn’t ask a million questions. She just lets me be. She teaches me how to order pizza. I teach her how to make snares out of shoelaces.

Little by little, I start to feel like maybe I can exist in this world.

Until the court date.

They want me to testify. Say that Thorn kidnapped me. That he stole me from my family.

But I can’t.

I tell the truth. I say he raised me gently. That he never laid a hand on me. That he didn’t keep me in a cage or chain me up. That he didn’t even lie—he just didn’t tell me everything.

People don’t like that answer.

The prosecutor stares at me like I’m brainwashed. My parents look hurt. My mom cries in the car the whole way home.

That night, I sit on the back porch and open the locket again.

And I finally notice something.

There’s writing etched inside. Not just dates. A message.

She wasn’t safe there. I’m sorry.

My stomach knots. I stare at those words for a long time.

The next day, I look it up. Old news articles. Family court records. Police reports.

And there it is.

A custody battle. A bitter one. My mom had been hospitalized a few times for what they called “emotional instability.” My dad’s brother—my uncle—had filed for emergency custody, claiming neglect. There were arguments about alcohol, medical records, accusations both ways.

And then I disappeared.

Everyone assumed a stranger took me. But what if… what if Thorn didn’t kidnap me? What if he was trying to protect me—from my own family?

I find an old photo of my uncle. And my breath catches.

It’s Thorn. A younger version, with shorter hair and a real name: Marcel Conroy.

He was my dad’s brother. My uncle.

He didn’t steal me. He took me—yes—but not for ransom, not for revenge.

He thought he was saving me.

Everything clicks into place. The locket. His silence. His fear of the outside world.

He wasn’t just hiding me from strangers. He was hiding me from my past.

I sit with that truth for a long time. It doesn’t make things less complicated. But it makes them make sense.

When I finally tell my parents what I found, my mom breaks down. She admits the truth—those years were hard. She was young, depressed, overwhelmed. She doesn’t excuse what happened, but she doesn’t deny it.

She tells me she fought to be better. That she thought I’d died. That not a day went by without aching for me.

I believe her.

And somehow, I also believe him.

I visit Thorn in prison. It takes weeks to get permission, and when I walk into the visiting room, I almost turn around. But I don’t.

He looks older. Tired. But when he sees me, his eyes light up like they always did when I caught my first fish or climbed too high.

We just sit there for a while, staring at each other.

Finally, I say, Why didn’t you just tell me?

He shrugs. You were two. By the time you were old enough to ask, I didn’t know how. I thought I’d keep you safe, just a little longer. Then a little longer again.

I nod.

He says, I never stopped loving your parents. I just… didn’t trust the life they had. I thought I could give you something better. Maybe I was wrong.

I don’t say anything. Because there isn’t a right answer.

But I tell him this: I don’t hate you. I’m grateful. And confused. And still figuring it out.

He smiles. That’s okay. Just don’t let them tell you who you are. Not even me.

I leave the prison feeling heavier and lighter all at once.

In the weeks that follow, I start writing things down. My memories. My questions. The things I’ve learned from both lives—the woods and the world.

Turns out, life doesn’t fit in tidy boxes. People can be wrong and right at the same time.

Love can look like kidnapping. And healing can start with a lie.

I’m Sadie now. But I’ll always be Lark, too.

And maybe that’s the point.

You don’t have to be just one thing. You can be both.

A girl from the forest.
A girl with a home.
A girl who was lost.
And found.