Chapter 3

After they left, I sat in the wreckage of my living room for hours. The smell of cheap whiskey and spilled blood filled the air. My knuckles were raw, my face was bruised, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the gaping hole in my chest.

I was adrift. Everything I had ever known, every memory I cherished, was tainted. Maria wasn't the soulmate I thought she was; she was a calculating opportunist. Wesley wasn't just a rival; he was the architect of my humiliation. This town wasn't my home; it was a cage filled with whispers and pitying looks.

I needed to get out. I needed to burn the old Matthew Roberts to the ground and build someone new from the ashes.

In my despair, a memory surfaced. My grandfather. He was a Vietnam vet, a man of quiet strength and immense integrity. He'd been a local politician after the war, respected by everyone. He died before I was born in this timeline, but in the last one, I remembered his stories. He' d left me something, a heavy wooden box tucked away in the attic.

I pulled down the attic stairs and climbed into the dusty heat. The box was there, right where I remembered. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a Congressional Medal of Honor. The highest award for valor in the United States military. Beside it was a letter, the paper yellowed with age.

I opened it. The letter was addressed to me, but it was written for a future I never thought I' d need. It spoke of duty, honor, and sacrifice. And it mentioned a name: General James Duncan. My grandfather' s commanding officer in Vietnam. The man who had recommended him for the medal. They were more than comrades; they were brothers.

The letter ended with a simple instruction: "If you ever find yourself lost, son, find General Duncan. He'll know what to do. The honor of this medal is not a prize to be displayed, but a key. Use it wisely."

A key.

I had a new purpose. I wasn't going to rot in this town, haunted by ghosts and lies. I was going to follow in my grandfather's footsteps. I was going to earn my own honor.

I packed a small bag, leaving everything else behind. I took the box with the medal and the letter and got in my truck. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I had to find General Duncan. A few phone calls to the VA and some old political contacts of my grandfather's led me to a location in Virginia, near the Pentagon.

I drove for two days straight, fueled by black coffee and a burning need to escape. When I finally arrived at the address, it was an imposing brick house in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. I walked up to the door, my heart pounding, and rang the bell.

The man who answered was older, but he stood ramrod straight. His eyes were sharp and clear, and they sized me up in an instant. He had the unmistakable bearing of a man who had commanded armies.

"Can I help you, son?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

I was just a grease-stained mechanic from a Texas backwater. I felt completely out of place. But I held out the wooden box. "General Duncan? My name is Matthew Roberts. My grandfather was Sergeant Michael Roberts. He served with you."

The General's expression softened. He took the box, his hands gentle, and opened it. He stared at the Medal of Honor for a long moment, a flicker of old memories, of old pain, in his eyes.

"Michael Roberts," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "He was the finest soldier I ever knew. He saved my life more than once." He looked back at me, his gaze piercing. "I heard what happened to the Roberts family. That your father and uncle also served, and didn't come home. A heavy price your family has paid."

He invited me inside, into a study lined with books and military memorabilia. He listened patiently as I told him my story. I didn't tell him about the rebirth, just the betrayal. The faked death, the public humiliation, the crushing revelation. I told him I had nothing left in my hometown, and I wanted to serve.

When I was finished, he was quiet for a long time. He looked from the medal to my bruised face.

"Your grandfather was a hero," he said finally. "This medal represents a debt that this country can never truly repay. But it's also a burden. You want to enlist? Out of anger? Out of a desire for revenge?"

"No, sir," I said, and I was surprised by the conviction in my own voice. "I want to do it for honor. My own. I want to be a man my grandfather would have been proud of."

General Duncan nodded slowly. "The army is not a place to escape your problems, son. It will chew you up and spit you out if your head isn't on straight. It's a hard life. Once you sign those papers, there's no going back."

"I understand, sir," I said. "I'm not looking for an escape. I'm looking for a new beginning."

He seemed to see something in my eyes, some flicker of the same resolve he must have seen in my grandfather. He stood up and walked to his desk. He pulled out a piece of official stationery and began to write.

"This medal," he said, not looking up from the paper, "is a key, as your grandfather said. But it doesn't open doors for you. It opens them for the man you have the potential to become." He finished writing and slid the paper across the desk to me.

It was a letter of recommendation. To the United States Military Academy at West Point.

"This will get your foot in the door," the General said. "The rest is up to you. You'll have to work harder than you've ever worked in your life. You'll have to prove you're more than just Michael Roberts' grandson. Do you understand?"

Tears welled in my eyes. It was the first time in weeks I hadn't felt anger or despair, but a profound sense of gratitude. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Good," he said, with a faint, sad smile. "Now, go make your family proud."