After three years locked away, I returned to learn my father had d!ed and my stepmother ruled his house. She didn’t know he’d hidden a letter and key, leading to a unit and video proving frame-up.

Yet as my boots hit the fractured pavement, my thoughts weren’t on prison.
Not on the noise.
Not on the injustice.

They were on one person.

My father.

Every night inside, I rebuilt him in my mind—always in the same place. Sitting in his old leather chair by the bay window, porch light casting a warm glow across the deep lines of his face. In my imagination, he was always waiting. Always alive. Holding onto the version of me that existed before the arrest, before the headlines, before the world decided Eli Vance was guilty.