School has resumed in Lanstown Station, but two desks in one classroom remain empty. The name tags still taped to the surfaces read: Lily Sullivan and Jack Sullivan — two young siblings who are still missing.

The bell still rings, lessons continue, and children gather for recess, yet the atmosphere inside the building has changed. Teachers and students are moving forward under routine, but two empty seats serve as a constant reminder of an unresolved tragedy.

Administrators have emphasized the need for normalcy, saying structure offers stability for the children who remain. But some parents and community members question whether resuming school without acknowledgment is strength — or denial.

Reports suggest several teachers are struggling emotionally. Some have broken down in private, while others quietly admit they cannot stop glancing at the empty cubbies and desks. The dilemma they face is clear: maintain order for the rest of the class, or openly acknowledge that two of their students may never return.

The case raises a painful question for both educators and families: should schools continue with routine in times of crisis, or pause to grieve? So far, there has been no official plan to bring in grief counselors or hold a memorial. Parents say their children are already asking difficult questions: “Why isn’t Lily back yet? Why don’t we talk about Jack at school?”

For some, the return to lessons offers comfort. For others, it feels like erasure. What message does it send when two missing children are quietly marked absent and life carries on?

Lily and Jack Sullivan remain missing. And in their absence, two small desks inside their classroom stand as haunting reminders that this community’s most pressing questions remain unanswered. 

School has resumed in Lanstown Station, and the sound of the morning bell rings once again through the halls. Children return to their routines: math lessons, packed lunches, playground laughter. But in one elementary classroom, two desks remain conspicuously empty. Still taped to the tops of those small tables are the names “Lily Sullivan” and “Jack Sullivan.” Their absence hangs heavy in the air, a silent echo of a tragedy that has yet to resolve.

The disappearance of six-year-old Lily and four-year-old Jack has shaken this quiet town to its core. For weeks, the community has been glued to every development — or lack thereof — in the ongoing investigation. Search efforts have slowed. Leads have run cold. And as summer fades into the new school year, the daily life of the town is gradually resuming, at least on the surface.

Inside the school, normalcy is being encouraged. Administrators say maintaining a routine helps children feel secure. Structure, they argue, can be a powerful stabilizer in times of crisis. But walking through the halls or sitting in the classrooms, it’s hard not to notice how much has changed. The emotional toll is visible, particularly among teachers and staff, many of whom knew the Sullivan siblings personally. There are reports of teachers breaking down behind closed doors, while others quietly confess to constantly glancing at the empty desks and cubbies.

In this classroom, where finger paintings still dry on the windowsill and books are lined neatly on a shelf, the silence surrounding Lily and Jack’s absence has grown louder with each passing day. There has been no formal acknowledgment during assemblies, no candlelight vigil, no visit from grief counselors. Parents whisper in carpool lines and at PTA meetings: why hasn’t the school said anything publicly? Is this silence an act of strength, or is it simply denial?

For children, the situation presents a different kind of confusion. Kids are asking hard questions. “When is Lily coming back?” one first grader reportedly asked her teacher. “Did Jack move away without saying goodbye?” another wondered aloud. The explanations they receive are vague, evasive. Teachers say they’re trying to protect their students from fear and trauma, but some parents argue that shielding children from reality may cause more confusion than comfort.

A divide is forming in the community between those who believe returning to routine is the healthiest path forward and those who feel that a failure to publicly address the loss sends a troubling message. Some worry that the absence of ceremony — no moment of silence, no letters sent home — quietly implies that Lily and Jack’s disappearance is a closed chapter, not an open wound.

One parent, whose daughter was close friends with Lily, described the first day of school as “haunting.” She said her child came home confused and upset that no one talked about the missing siblings. “We tell our kids to be kind, to care, to be aware of each other,” she said. “But then two of their classmates vanish, and we act like nothing happened? What kind of lesson is that?”

For others, however, the return to routine offers a much-needed sense of grounding. Children, after all, thrive on predictability. One counselor who has worked in crisis response argues that forcing a class-wide focus on grief could deepen anxiety rather than ease it. “Every child processes trauma differently,” she explained. “Some find comfort in talking. Others need the security of familiar routines. The challenge is finding a balance.”

But that balance appears elusive in Lanstown Station. With no centralized guidance or visible plan from the school district, teachers are left to navigate the emotional landscape on their own. Some have begun gently weaving in social-emotional learning into their lessons, trying to create safe spaces for questions without violating policies or boundaries. Others admit they’re unsure how much they’re allowed to say at all.

The broader community has started asking hard questions of its own. Where is the leadership in this crisis? Why has there been no district-wide communication on how to support grieving or confused children? Why haven’t outside counselors or trauma specialists been brought in?

Meanwhile, the investigation into Lily and Jack’s disappearance remains officially open, but updates have been scarce. Authorities have neither confirmed nor denied suspicions about any individuals. Public appeals have dwindled, replaced by quiet anxiety. The once-constant buzz of hope has dulled into a heavy uncertainty that blankets every part of daily life — including the classroom.

In the absence of new developments, the school itself has become a symbol of the unresolved pain. Those two empty desks serve not only as a reminder of the children who once sat there, but of the silence that surrounds their story. The silence of the administration. The silence of the investigation. And the silence of a town unsure of how to grieve.

What should a school do when a tragedy like this strikes? Should the calendar continue without pause, trusting that time will dull the pain? Or should educators lead by example, helping children learn that acknowledgment and remembrance are just as important as resilience? There’s no easy answer. But for many in Lanstown Station, the lack of any answer at all feels like a wound left to fester.

One teacher, speaking anonymously, put it simply: “We were told to carry on. So we do. But it feels wrong. Every day I walk into that room, and I see their desks, and I feel like we’re pretending nothing happened.”

And perhaps that’s the most painful part. Not just the loss itself, but the growing sense that the community has been asked to forget — or at least, to stop asking. To keep the questions quiet. To focus on what remains, rather than what’s missing.

But the children haven’t forgotten. They remember the laughter, the stories, the games on the playground. They remember Lily’s pink backpack and Jack’s dinosaur lunchbox. And they still wonder: where did they go? Why doesn’t anyone talk about them anymore?

Until those questions are answered, those two small desks inside that classroom will do the talking. Quietly. Constantly. Unavoidably. They are a haunting reminder that some stories refuse to fade, even when life carries on.