The final stroke of my fountain pen across the contract felt heavier than it should have. It was past nine at night, and the glass walls of my office reflected a man who seemed powerful yet empty. Below, Chicago stretched endlessly, its lights sharp and distant like stars that no longer warmed anyone. I had built half of what I saw. Towers, developments, entire districts shaped by my signature. My name, Michael Turner, carried weight in boardrooms and city halls alike. Yet none of it filled the silent emptiness inside my chest.
On my desk, framed photographs waited silently. In one, a woman stood in a sunlit garden, a soft, open smile on her face. Rebecca. My first wife. She possessed a quiet strength that made the world feel stable. Beside her picture was another frame, smaller and worn. A little girl laughed, her cheeks flushed, holding a blue balloon twice her size. Ava. My daughter. That laughter had vanished from our home after the day Rebecca died giving birth to our son, Lucas.
