It was 1984, when Cindy disappeared on the streets of Chicago. She was a tall, slender, beautiful woman. She was always very kind to everyone she meet, always going out of her way to help them. But, also very frugal. She was also always well dressed with her tan jacket and simple black scarf. But, she always had a sense of sadness to her. She always had this strange sense of yearning to be somewhere else. This place was only in her dreams that were based purely on the books she’d read. Fairy Tale lands of kings and queens, knights and dragons. Whenever I asked her to describe it to me, she always reply to someway, “Wonderland”. I don’t understand it much, but it’s what she wants. So, I let her dream it. It gives her inspiration for her artwork and writings. She’s had a love for life and the impossible.
We walk to the downtown everyday, to get a cup of coffee at a little shop on the corner of 34th and 35th street. We talk about her next exhibit or when she would be done with her next book, as we walk to the office building. As we walked, her eyes were always somewhat turned to the sun. I knew that she was dreaming about her dream land. She was getting inspired.
One day, I walked up to her studio apartment, as usual. I knock on the door to let her know I was there. She come out with her journal. She always carried that thing. I never knew what was in it. I assumed that it was just a collection of her thoughts for stories or exhibits.  But, today, she didn’t answer. So, I walked down to the coffee shop: Maybe she decided to go earlier and just forgot to tell me. When I go there, she wasn’t there. I asked, if anyone had seen her come in. But, no one did. I walked over to the office, thinking she might have go there. I spent the whole day seeing, if she was there, going through our normal routine, talked to everyone we worked with. Nothing. At the end of the day, I walked back to her apartment. Maybe she’s feeling sick, I thought. When I got there, I knocked on the door. I don’t think it was going to open. But, then the door opened slightly. I walked in, looking around, calling her name. No response. She didn’t seem to be here. I walked to where she did her work, seeing a painting. I walked closer. It was the view from the coffee shop. As I walked closer, her journal was in front of the painting. There was a piece of paper sticking out of it. I picked it up, taking the paper out. It was addressed to me. I unfolded it, reading:

Dear Dean,
This is for the exhibit. Sorry for not getting it to you earlier, it just wasn’t finished yet. But, I think it is now. This will be my last piece. I’ve found my Wonderland. Thank you for always letting me dream, so I could find that place.
With Love,
Cindy
P.S.
Please, feel free to publish my journal. I think people will love it.

I looked at the painting again. I saw someone looking back at me: Could it be?