after 3 jears presion

After 3 years in prison, I came home to find my father dead and my stepmother in his house. “He was buried a year ago, Now get off my property,” she said coldly, closing the door. When I rushed to the cemetery to find his grave, the old groundskeeper looked at me with pity. “He’s not here,” he whispered. My blood ran cold. But I found a secret letter with a key he left for me… and the horryfing truth could shatter my stepmom’s life forever…
The first breath of freedom didn’t taste like liberty. It tasted like diesel fumes, bitter coffee, and the metallic tang of a bus station at dawn. Three years behind bars, and I walked out with a plastic bag containing the sum total of my existence. But my mind wasn’t on the past.
I was thinking about one thing. My father.
Every night inside, I had constructed him in my mind: sitting in his worn leather armchair, the warm yellow light washing over his face. He was always waiting. Always alive. Always holding onto the version of me before the courts, before the headlines, before the world decided Eli Vance was a criminal.
I ran straight home.
Or what I thought was home. The street looked mostly the same, but as I got closer, the details blurred into something wrong. The porch railing was slate blue, not peeling white. The flower beds were manicured, filled with unfamiliar shrubs. New cars.
I slowed down, my boots scuffing the pavement. Still, I walked up the steps. The front door was an expensive charcoal gray, not the dull navy my father chose. Where the welcome mat used to be, there was a fancy coir mat: “HOME SWEET HOME.”
I knocked. Hard. Like a son who had been counting down 1,095 days.
The door opened. No familiar warmth, no smell of old books. Linda stood there. My stepmother. Her hair was styled, her silk blouse crisp and expensive. Her eyes, sharp and measured, scanned me like I was a delivery for the wrong address.
For a second, I thought she might flinch. Soften. Look surprised.
Instead, her expression stayed flat. “You’re out,” she said, devoid of emotion.
“Where’s my dad?” My voice sounded rusty, too loud.
Linda’s mouth tightened. Then she said it. Calmly. Coldly.
“Your father was buried a year ago.”
The words didn’t land. They hovered, nonsensical. Buried. A year ago. My mind tried to reject it, like a bad dream. I waited for the punchline. The correction. But Linda didn’t blink.
“We live here now,” she added, gesturing vaguely. “So… you should go.”
My throat went dry. “Why… why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Linda’s lips curved slightly. Not a smile—satisfaction. “You were in prison, Eli. What were we supposed to do? Send you a sympathy card?”
Behind her, the hallway was alien. Different pictures. Different furniture. None of my father’s things. It was like he’d been erased. And Linda was the eraser.
“I need to see him,” I said, desperation clawing at my chest. “I need to go to his room.”
“There’s nothing to see,” she replied, stepping back to close the door. “It’s over.”
Then, she shut it. Not slammed. Just closed—slow, deliberate. The click of the deadbolt was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.
I stood staring at the door, unable to process the new reality. A year. My father had been de;a;d for a year. And I was finding out like a stranger.
;
I ended up at the only place that made sense. The cemetery.
An older man leaned on a rake. “You looking for someone?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“My father,” I said. “Thomas Vance. I need to find his grave.”
He studied me, then shook his head. “Don’t look,” he said quietly.
My heart sank. “What do you mean, don’t look?”
“He’s not here.”