Concise Rewrite of Entire Passage (Approx. 200 words):
I last saw Laura spinning barefoot on the makeshift dance floor Daddy built that morning—beer‑slicked plywood giving way to soft earth. Her ivory dress hem was stained by barbecue sauce, punch, and Iowa dust. Still, she was joy in lace.
Yellow lights strung by Mama glowed overhead. Lilacs mixed with Uncle Randy’s grill smoke. Folks laughed, kids chased fireflies, and old country music drifted through the night.
“You’re really married now,” I said over lemonade. Her cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Isn’t it wild?” she replied. Luke waved in the yard—he looked like the luckiest man alive. Her smile faltered then, but I didn’t notice.
By morning, Laura was gone. The motel room lay pristine, her dress folded neatly, her phone untouched. No note. No goodbye. Police, neighbors, volunteers searched the woods, dragged the pond. Nothing.
Laura vanished—clean as a snapped finger. Silence followed. Mama stopped humming in the kitchen. Daddy slumped over the farm. Luke stayed two years, then left. I moved into Laura’s room, the scent of her still clinging to everything. I packed her things into the attic, promising I’d return when ready.