The old wooden door of Willow Creek Ranch groaned open as though it had been waiting two long years for that moment.
Ethan Harrison stood beneath the stone entrance, rain soaking through his shirt while a black backpack hung heavily from one shoulder.
He had not returned since the day he buried Grace.
White sheets still covered the furniture. Family photographs hung unevenly on the walls. Dead plants sat forgotten in corners, and the smell of aging wood lingered beneath the faint memory of the perfume Grace used to wear when she filled the house with life.
Ethan owned luxury hotels, construction companies, and enough wealth to make powerful people jealous.
Outside those gates, people treated him with admiration and fear.
Inside this house, he was neither rich nor powerful.
He was simply a grieving husband.
His therapist had spent months urging him to come back.
“Not to forget her,” she had said. “To accept that she’s gone.”
