Echoes of the Past

The air in the Hayes’ study was thick with an unspoken tension, a palpable weight that pressed down on Logan’s shoulders. Sunlight, usually a cheerful intruder, seemed to dim as it filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, accusing shadows across the polished mahogany desk. His father sat behind it, a statue carved from granite and ambition, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

“You’ve been… distracted, Logan,” Mr. Hayes began, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with authority. He didn't ask, he stated. It was a familiar preface to a lecture, a pronouncement, or a demand.

Logan kept his own expression carefully neutral, a skill honed over years of navigating his father’s formidable presence. “Crestmont demands a great deal of my attention, Father.”