A sharp ring cut through the carefully cultivated silence of Elias Vance’s office. He barely glanced at the caller ID, a familiar number from his assistant, Sarah, flashing impatiently. Another late-breaking revision, perhaps, or a client demanding an impossible deadline. Fingers, calloused from years of drafting and model-making, tapped a rhythm against the polished mahogany desk. His gaze drifted to the sprawling cityscape outside his penthouse window, a testament to his ambition. “Yes, Sarah?” he answered, voice crisp, devoid of any discernible fatigue despite the sixteen-hour day already under his belt. Her usual efficient tone faltered. “Mr. Vance, I… I have a call for you. It’s… personal.” Elias paused, pen hovering over a blueprint. Personal calls were a rarity, especially during working hours. His world was meticulously segmented: work, gym, sleep. Little else. “Put them through,” he instructed, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. A click, then a deep, unfamiliar voice. “Mr. Elias Vance?” “Speaking.” His grip tightened on the pen, ink bleeding slightly into the paper. “My name is Arthur Jenkins. I’m a solicitor in Willow Creek.” Willow Creek. The name hung in the air, a forgotten scent, a half-remembered melody. Elias hadn’t heard those words spoken aloud in two decades. “Yes?” he prompted, his voice now flat, carefully neutral. “I regret to inform you, Mr. Vance, that your father, Robert Vance, passed away this morning.” Air caught in Elias’s throat. Not a gasp, not a cry, but a sudden, profound emptiness. He felt a peculiar pressure behind his eyes, a phantom ache. Silence stretched, heavy and profound, across the miles of fiber optic cable. The city hummed below, oblivious. “Are you… still there, Mr. Vance?” Jenkins asked, a note of hesitant concern in his voice. “Yes,” Elias managed, the word thin. He swallowed, a dry, uncomfortable gulp. “How?” “Peacefully, I understand. In his sleep. Found by a neighbor. He was eighty-two.” Eighty-two. A number that meant nothing to Elias. His father had been a ghost long before he became a corpse. “I see,” Elias said. He didn’t see. He saw nothing but the precise lines of his blueprint, blurring at the edges. “Naturally, there are arrangements to be made. He named you as his next of kin. And his sole beneficiary.” Beneficiary. The word felt like a cruel joke. What could Robert Vance possibly leave him, other than a legacy of absence? “Right,” Elias muttered. He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the polished floor. The city outside his window seemed to mock his sudden instability. “I can forward you the details. Funeral services are provisionally set for Friday.” Friday. Three days. Not enough time to process, too much time to dread. “Send them,” Elias said, his voice regaining some of its usual steel. He felt a strange sort of calm settling over him, an old, familiar numbness. “And Mr. Vance, my condolences.” Elias offered no reply. He simply disconnected the call, letting the phone drop back into its cradle with a soft thud. He stared at the receiver, as if it held all the answers to questions he’d long stopped asking. Stress lines deepened around his mouth. He walked to the window, pressing a palm against the cool glass. The city lights twinkled like distant, indifferent stars. Willow Creek. The name was a whisper of wind through an empty house. A place he’d meticulously scrubbed from his memory, replaced by steel and glass, by progress and ambition. He had built a life here, brick by careful brick, designed every corner to keep the past out. Now, a single phone call had shattered the carefully constructed facade. His father. The man who had been a silhouette, a shadow, a silence for so many years. Now, unequivocally, gone. Did he feel grief? He searched within himself, finding only a vast, echoing space. Perhaps resentment. A fresh wave of it, at being dragged back, at being forced to confront what he had so deliberately abandoned. Sarah’s voice buzzed through the intercom. “Mr. Vance? Everything alright? You were on the phone for a while.” “Fine, Sarah,” he replied, his voice a little rougher than intended. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the week. And book me a car. To Willow Creek.” A beat of silence from the intercom. “Willow Creek, sir? Are you sure?” “Just do it,” he snapped, then immediately regretted the sharpness. “Please.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, feeling the faint tremor in his fingers. The office felt suddenly too small, the air too thick. This wasn’t a business trip. This wasn’t a client meeting. This was a summons, a ghost from a life he’d sworn off. Packing would be a formality. A few shirts, a suit for the funeral. Essentials. He wouldn’t stay long. Just long enough to tie up loose ends. Long enough to ensure Willow Creek could never touch him again. Long enough to bury a man he barely knew. His jaw ached from clenching. He closed his eyes, seeing not the vibrant city, but the dusty main street of a forgotten town, the murky waters of a familiar creek. Getting back would be an excavation. An unearthing of old pain, old wounds. He felt a tightness in his chest, a familiar constriction that had been a constant companion in his youth. That ache, dull and persistent, told Elias that the drive home would be the hardest journey of his life.

Chapter 1: The Summons Home