Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
I moved back into my childhood home, a place filled with the ghosts of my mother and the quiet, stoic influence of a man who had seen the worst of humanity but chose to keep his heart buried deep.
I started going to therapy. My therapist, a sharp woman named Dr. Aris, helped me see the pattern. It wasn't just Mark; it was the way I had let him erode my boundaries. "You were living in a fire, Sarah," she told me during our third session. "Your father knew you were burning, and he was just waiting for you to call for the water."
But Mark’s shadow was long. I started getting anonymous texts. They were just empty threats—symbols, blank images, things meant to make me look over my shoulder. I didn't tell Dad. I didn't want him to think I was still "fragile."
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That was a mistake.
One evening, while Dad was at his VA meeting, I heard the crunch of gravel. I ran to the window. A black sedan was idling at the edge of the property. It didn't pull in, it didn't leave. It just watched.
