I left the building faster than usual—nothing like my usual composure.
I didn't stop by my desk.
I didn't greet anyone.
The glass doors slid open, and cold air struck my face like a slap I deserved.
I didn't head to my car right away.
I stood there for a second… trying to catch a thread of logic in the noise inside my head.
The message.
The old photo.
The forgotten case.
Hearts stopping for no reason.
The world rushed around me while I stood frozen—
then everything stilled… and I moved.
---
I drove without a destination.
Ran a red light… maybe two.
Speed cameras caught me more than once.
The roads blurred into dull, meaningless colors.
And despite the miles I put behind me…
I was still in that room.
"Welcome back to your first case…"
The stranger's voice echoed in my mind.
And suddenly—
I realized I didn't even know who he was.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I don't miss details.
Not the important ones.
That… was a mistake.
---
By the time I snapped back, the morning was already gone.
And I found myself standing in front of a large building.
I hadn't decided to come here.
I hadn't planned it.
But there I was.
My father's company.
I hesitated for a few minutes.
But I knew…
we needed to talk.
---
I stepped out of the car and walked toward the building.
The glass façade reflected my image back at me—
dark suit, rigid expression, tired eyes.
Above the entrance, the name was carved in polished silver.
An empire built on cold deals… and harsher decisions.
I exhaled slowly.
I hadn't been here in years.
The lobby was just as I remembered.
White marble.
Warm lighting.
Controlled chaos—everyone moving with purpose.
I ignored the reception desk and headed straight for the elevator.
Tenth floor.
Executive level.
Founder.
A few employees glanced at me strangely.
I ignored them.
The ride took longer than it should have—
this elevator wasn't meant for executives.
When the doors finally opened…
silence greeted me.
A heavy silence.
Only the ticking of a clock… and the faint rustle of paper.
---
I walked toward my father's office.
A man in his late thirties stopped me—well-dressed, polite smile.
"How can I help you, sir?"
I looked at him for two seconds.
"I want to see Mr. Clark."
His smile tightened.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
"Then I'm afraid I can't—"
"Tell him Adam is here."
He hesitated, studying my face.
"I'm sorry… do you mean Adam Reyes from—?"
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
"No. I mean Adam Clark. His son."
He froze.
But there was no recognition in his eyes.
"I'll need confirmation before—"
I walked past him.
"Sir! You can't just go in—"
His voice followed me down the hallway.
I didn't stop.
---
I reached the heavy wooden door.
Knocked once.
Then opened it.
Four people froze mid-presentation.
I ignored the interruption… and took in the office.
It hadn't changed.
Spacious.
Ordered.
Uncomfortably calm.
And yet…
filled with quiet traces of my mother.
She had designed it.
My father lifted his gaze slowly.
He didn't smile.
Didn't get angry.
He just… looked at me.
"Leave us."
The others exited immediately.
The door closed behind them.
And we were alone.
---
Silence.
I stepped forward as he stood.
We met in the middle of the room.
A handshake felt too formal.
A hug felt too intimate.
So—without saying it—
we skipped both.
"I didn't expect you."
His voice was calm. Controlled.
But something flickered behind his eyes.
Concern.
Quickly buried.
"I didn't plan this," I said.
We sat.
Silence stretched again.
Finally—
"They reopened the case."
His brow lifted.
"Why now?"
"They think there's a link.
Between the new deaths… and my mother's case."
Silence.
"Three years ago, you told me to stop chasing the past," I said.
"Now it's knocking again."
He folded his hands.
"Did you accept it?"
"Not yet."
He looked at me directly.
"Then don't."
I froze.
"Don't?"
"Some cases don't give closure.
They just consume you."
"Twenty years… and nothing changed."
"You're not the only one in pain."
His eyes drifted to a framed photo.
"You taught me not to leave a case unanswered," I said.
"Then you did. Why?"
His jaw tightened.
"Watch your tone, Adam."
"You're afraid of something."
He turned toward the window.
"Some secrets should remain secrets."
I smiled coldly.
"Even if it means abandoning her?"
His eyes sharpened.
"If it means protecting what I fought for.
You… and your brother."
"From what? The truth?"
He didn't answer.
"If you know something—"
"Enough."
Silence fell heavy.
"If you go back… do it as a detective. Not as a son."
I turned to leave.
"If you were me… would you stop?"
A long pause.
"No."
I never doubted he loved her.
I doubted everything else.
---
I left without looking back.
This time, I took the stairs.
Running helped… a little.
Not enough.
But enough.
---
I stopped at a small flower shop.
The scent was soft… but unsettling.
The colors were too alive.
I stood there, unsure why I had come.
"Can I help you?"
"I need a bouquet… that says I'm sorry."
"For whom?"
"…My mother."
She didn't ask anything else.
Just prepared it.
Carefully.
"Don't make her angry again," she said lightly.
I didn't respond.
I just paid… and left.
---
The cemetery was quiet.
Too quiet.
Like peace… forced into existence.
Two bouquets were already there.
One precise. Controlled.
The other uneven. Honest.
My father.
Aiden.
I placed mine beside them.
Three messages.
None spoken.
All understood.
---
I knelt.
My fingers brushed the cold marble.
Eva Clark.
"Hey…"
I exhaled.
"I'm sorry."
My voice steadied.
"I should've been stronger."
My breath faltered.
"If I hadn't been there…
if they hadn't taken me…"
I stopped.
"You died because of me."
Silence.
"They reopened the case."
I looked up slightly.
"And I don't know if I want the truth…
or fear it."
I swallowed.
"I feel… not enough."
The words felt heavier than anything I had said before.
"Not enough to protect you.
Not enough to stop them.
Not enough to give you justice."
The wind stirred.
"I'm scared."
A whisper.
"But I won't run this time."
I stood slowly.
"Even if I break… I'll see this through."
A final glance.
"Forgive me… for being twenty years late."
I turned.
And walked away.
Not stronger.
Not healed.
Just…
slightly less broken.