It was a golden summer evening in 1990, the night of Lena Nikolaev’s graduation. Her parents, Nikolai and Olga, were proud and full of joy. Lena twirled in her blue dress, excited for the future. No one imagined it would be the last time they’d see her for over two decades. After the ceremony, Lena said goodbye to friends and promised to return home soon. She never did.
As hours turned to days, then years, hope faded. No note, no body, just silence. Her room remained untouched. Her parents clung to memories—and grief. Then, in 2012, Nikolai found a photo in an old album while cleaning the attic. In it, a woman stood before a mountain home. On the back, in Lena’s handwriting: