The beginning
My name is not important. So I shall not record it.
This is my journey, and these are my words.
I have not lived a charmed life. No boy could wish for my childhood nor want my education upon which I have built my life. For as long as I can remember, my father has been estranged from my life; distant from me...
Now my father is no longer among the living. I would have enjoyed meeting him alive.
But fate is cruel, and time is relentless. The past does not grant second chances, nor does it rewrite itself to suit the wishes of the living. I stand now at his grave—a marker of a man I never truly knew, a name that means little to me beyond the blood we share. Others whisper of his deeds, his triumphs, his failures. They tell me what kind of man he was, what kind of father he might have been. But these are their words, not his.
I wonder, had he lived long enough to see me, to know me, would he have welcomed me? Or would he have turned away, as he always had in life?
It is a question without an answer.
So I will not ask it again.
What I will do is walk the path before me, not as his son, nor as his legacy, but as my own man. Let his memory rest where it belongs—in the past. I will not carry the weight of ghosts.
Not anymore.
Yet, despite his absence, despite the years of silence between us, he left me everything. His fortune, his holdings, his name—all passed down to me as if I had been the son he cherished, the heir he groomed.
Why?
That is the question that lingers like a specter, more haunting than his memory itself. It was not guilt that drove him to this—my father was not a man to be burdened by remorse. Nor was it love; if he had cared for me, he would have shown it in life, not in the ink of his will.
Perhaps it was duty. A sense of obligation, cold and mechanical, as if I were merely the next link in a chain stretching back generations. Or perhaps it was something else entirely—something I have yet to understand.
But I do not want his wealth. I do not want his name.
And yet, to refuse it would be foolish. The world does not care for sentiment; it does not reward pride. My father gave me this power, whether I wished for it or not. So I will take it. Not as his son, nor as the keeper of his legacy—but as a weapon to forge my own path.
If this was some final act of control, some cruel joke played from beyond the grave, then let him laugh in whatever afterlife he now inhabits. For I will take what he has given me and make it my own.
Let the past be buried with him.
What matters now is what comes next.
