Packed Bags and a Broken Bond

ROMAN

I was eighteen when my father died.

The memory hit me like a physical blow as I sorted through Fabian's clothes for the weekend ahead. I'd spent the morning cleaning out the guest room, transforming the sterile space into something a six-year-old boy might find welcoming. Moon and star projector installed. Small bookshelf filled with adventure stories. A fishing rod propped in the corner, sized perfectly for small hands.

It still didn't feel like enough.

I folded another t-shirt, trying to focus on the task instead of the ghosts crowding my mind. But memories are stubborn things. They surface when you least expect them, especially the painful ones.

The day had started like any other. Training with Marcus and Gage in the clearing behind the packhouse. We were practicing combat forms, the three of us laughing as Gage kept getting his footwork wrong.

"You're going to get your ass handed to you in the regional trials," Marcus had said, ducking Gage's retaliatory swing.