Chapter 2

The bus ride was long. I watched the manicured suburbs give way to strip malls, then to open fields and small towns that all looked the same. I got off in my hometown, a place I hadn't seen in nearly a decade.

It was smaller than I remembered. Quieter. The air smelled like damp earth and pine trees, not exhaust fumes.

I walked to my childhood home. It was still standing, just barely. The paint was peeling, the porch was sagging, and weeds had conquered the front yard. After my parents died, the Davies family had "handled" the property, which meant they paid the taxes and let it rot.

To them, it was a worthless asset. To me, it was the only thing I had left.

I found the hidden key right where my dad always kept it, under a loose stone by the back steps. The lock was stiff, but it turned. The air inside was stale and thick with dust.

Sunlight streamed through the grimy windows, illuminating dancing dust motes. Everything was covered in white sheets, like ghosts of a life I once had.

I pulled the sheet off the living room couch. A puff of dust filled the air. I sat down, and for the first time in a week, I let myself feel everything.

The grief for my parents, the wasted years, the hollow ache of my relationship with Lily. It all came crashing down on me. I didn't cry. I just sat there, hollowed out.

The next day, I started working.

I threw open all the windows, letting the fresh air chase out the ghosts. I started by clearing the yard, pulling weeds until my hands were raw and blistered. The physical labor was a relief. It was honest. You pull a weed, it's gone. Simple. Clear result.

Life with Olivia was never simple. It was a maze of unwritten rules and unspoken expectations. Don't speak unless spoken to at her parents' dinner parties. Compliment her friends, even if they're awful. Never, ever make her look bad.

I remember once, early in our marriage, I brought home a small, abstract sculpture I' d made in my spare time. It was my attempt to hold on to a piece of myself.

I put it on the mantelpiece.

When Olivia saw it, she didn't get angry. She just tilted her head and said, "Oh, Ethan. That's... rustic. It doesn't really go with the minimalist aesthetic, does it?"

She moved it to the garage that afternoon. I found it a week later in the trash.

That was the last piece of art I ever made.

The job her father got me was in a soulless corporate office. The work was boring, repetitive, and crushed my creativity. But the pay was good, and it kept me out of the house for eight hours a day. My only escape was video games. Late at night, after everyone was asleep, I'd retreat into digital worlds where I could be a hero, a creator, a king. It was the only place I had any control.

Olivia despised it. "Still playing with your toys, Ethan? It's so juvenile."

She never understood that it was the only thing keeping me sane.

I spent a month cleaning the house. I tore out the rotten floorboards, patched the roof, and scrubbed every surface until it shone. I found my father's old tools in the garage, rusted but solid. I cleaned them and put them to use.

I also found a box of old photos. My parents, smiling, holding me as a baby. Us on camping trips, at the beach. They looked so happy. So in love. It was a world away from the cold, silent dinners at the Davies' mansion.

One day, I found a sealed envelope in that box. It was a paternity test result, dated shortly after Lily was born. I had done it in secret. Olivia had a reputation before we met, a string of wealthy boyfriends. I had to know.

The result confirmed it: I was her biological father.

It didn't bring me joy. It just felt like another chain, one I had just managed to break. She was my blood, but she was not my daughter. The Davies had made sure of that.

With the house slowly coming back to life, I felt a spark of an idea. I bought a cheap smartphone and a tripod. I started recording my work.

I filmed myself sanding the old hardwood floors, revealing the beautiful grain underneath. I filmed myself rebuilding the front porch, step by step. I didn't talk much in the videos. I just set the camera up and worked, sometimes adding quiet music.

I uploaded the first video to a popular streaming site under the name "The Rebuilder." I didn't expect anything. It was just a way to document the process, to prove to myself I was creating something again.

I went to bed and forgot about it.

The next morning, I woke up to a flood of notifications. The video had a thousand views. Then five thousand. By the end of the day, it had fifty thousand.

The comments were overwhelmingly positive.

"So satisfying to watch."

"This guy is a real craftsman."

"There's something so peaceful about this."

"More, please!"

I was stunned. I uploaded another video, this time of me fixing the leaky kitchen sink. It did even better.

At the end of the week, I got an email from the platform. My videos were eligible for monetization. I had earned a hundred and twenty dollars.

It wasn't much, but it was mine. I had earned it with my own two hands, doing something I loved. It was more real than any paycheck I had ever received from that corporate design firm.

A sense of purpose began to bloom in my chest. I wasn't just fixing a house. I was rebuilding my life. The past, with its silent dinners and cold shoulders, began to feel like a distant dream.

The sound of my phone ringing one afternoon jolted me out of my peaceful state.

It was an unknown number, but it was from my old city's area code. My heart sank.

I let it ring. But they called back. Immediately.

I answered, my voice tight. "Hello?"

"Ethan? It's me."

Olivia. Her voice was just as I remembered it. Smooth, confident, and utterly devoid of warmth.