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.

“We live here now,” she added. “You should leave.”

The hallway behind her was unrecognizable. New furniture. New pictures. No sign of my father’s boots. No jacket. No smell of sawdust or coffee.

It was as if he had been erased.

And she held the eraser.

“I need to see him,” I said, desperation clawing at my chest. “His room—”