I was thirteen when my parents disappeared, leaving me with nothing but a note and an empty house. My wealthy uncle took me in and taught me everything. Fifteen years later, fate brought us face to face.

I sat in my luxurious office where everything exuded power and success. The transparent glass walls overlooked the glittering Monterey Bay under the autumn afternoon sun. Below me was the bustling city of Monterey with waves gently lapping against the shore. And in the distance, the lush green hills of California.

I, Elijah Mountain, thirty-two years old, chairman of Mountain Construction Group, an empire of construction that I was fortunate to inherit from my respected uncle. But today—my birthday—everything seemed like a thin veneer masking a profound loneliness.

On my desk, amid stacks of contract papers and financial reports, lay a solitary birthday card. It was from my assistant, Ella—a young woman always thoughtful with small gestures like this.

“Happy birthday, boss. Wishing you a new year full of success and joy.”

The handwritten note was neat, accompanied by a whimsical drawing of a birthday cake. I picked it up, smiling faintly. But then a cold wind from the past swept in, wrapping tightly around my heart. This card, no matter how warm, was just a reminder that my birthdays had never truly been joyful. It pulled me back in time to the day when everything changed forever—my thirteenth birthday, the day I was abandoned like a discarded item.

I closed my eyes and memories flooded back like a torrent. I could feel the damp, musty smell of wood in the small house in the town of Eureka, Northern California, where summer was always humid and foggy. Back then, I was just a thirteen‑year‑old boy, skinny, with messy brown hair and eyes full of hope.

School let out early that day, and I ran home, my heart pounding with excitement. Today was my birthday. I imagined my parents waiting at home with a homemade cake, maybe chocolate—the kind my mom liked—and gifts wrapped in colorful paper. My dad, Daniel, would pat my shoulder and say, “Son, you’re growing up.” And my mom, Ruth, would hug me tight and sing the birthday song. That’s what I dreamed about on the way home with my heavy backpack and worn‑out shoes.

The path home was a red dirt trail lined with towering pine forests, the birdsong echoing like background music to my excitement. Eureka was a small town where everyone knew each other and our wooden house was on the outskirts a few miles from the center. It wasn’t a luxurious home, just a simple one with a hastily tiled roof and a backyard full of weeds. But to me, it was the whole world.

I pushed the door open, breathing heavily, grinning from ear to ear.

“Dad, Mom, I’m home!” I called out loudly, but only echoes answered. The house was strangely silent. No smell of baking cake, no laughter—just the ticking of the wall clock and the afternoon sunlight filtering through dusty windows.

I set my backpack down, the wooden floor creaking, and stepped into the kitchen. That was where Mom usually cooked, with the old wooden table and the humming refrigerator. And then I saw it—a small white note scribbled hastily with a ballpoint pen, stuck to the fridge door with a heart‑shaped magnet. I approached, my heart still racing, thinking maybe this was a joke, part of a birthday surprise.

I read: “Elijah, we’re going to a friend’s house. We’ll be back in a week. Eat carefully. Mom and Dad.”

That was all. No birthday wishes, no promises of gifts—nothing.

I stood there, blinking a few times, trying to understand. “To a friend’s house,” I muttered to myself. Which friend? We didn’t have close friends nearby. My parents were always busy with work. Dad was a carpenter. Mom worked at a grocery store. They had never gone far without telling me first.

I opened the fridge, hoping to find a cake or something, but there were only a few dry slices of bread, some expired yogurt, and a withered apple. My heart began to sink, but I told myself they’d probably come back soon. Maybe it was a surprise trip, and when they returned, they’d throw a bigger party.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the cracked wooden ceiling, unable to sleep. The wind howling through the door cracks made me shiver. I thought about my birthday—about turning thirteen, the age where I thought I was grown up—but now I felt smaller than ever.

The next morning, I woke up early, made myself a glass of milk with dry bread, and walked to school as usual. I didn’t want anyone to know my parents weren’t home. In Eureka, people were nosy, and I was afraid if discovered they’d call the police or send me to an orphanage. I have to act normal, I told myself, smiling at friends in class, pretending everything was fine.

The first few days passed in growing anxiety. I’d come home each afternoon hoping to see Dad’s car parked outside. But there was only the empty yard and the neighbor’s dog barking. I’d wash my clothes myself in a basin of cold water, hang them on the line in the yard, and sit studying under the dim yellow desk lamp. The light shone on my books, but my mind was filled with questions. Where did they go? Why no phone call? We had a landline, but it stayed silent. I tried calling a few acquaintances, but no one knew about any friend’s house my parents mentioned.

By the third day, fear began to gnaw at me. I’d eaten all the dry bread, so I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets for more food—found a few cans of cold beans and some moldy crackers. My stomach growled, but I endured. At night, I’d curl up under the blanket, listening to every small sound—the rustling leaves, the distant cars on the highway.

“They’ll come back,” I whispered to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks. I remembered Mom telling bedtime stories, her voice warm, and Dad teaching me wood carving. Now all were faded memories.

On the fourth day at school, I started feeling exhausted. The teacher asked why I looked pale. I forced a smile. “Just a slight cold, ma’am.” I hid my fear of being discovered—hid the growing loneliness. Coming home, I’d sit by the window, staring at the darkening road, waiting for car sounds. Every time headlights flashed by, my heart skipped. “It’s them.” But the car would pass, leaving darkness.

I began imagining worst‑case scenarios. Maybe they had an accident—or forgot about me. The thought made me tremble.

On the fifth day, I ran out of food. I had to walk to the nearby grocery store, using the few coins left in my pocket to buy bread and milk. The store owner looked at me strangely.

“Where are your parents?”

“They’re busy, sir,” I stammered.

Back home, I ate quickly, then sat studying, but my mind wandered. I wrote in an old notebook: It’s been five days since my birthday. No one remembers. I’m so lonely. Tears fell on the page, blurring the ink.

On the sixth day, despair began to creep in. I no longer felt excited—just scared. I’d wander around the house, touching my parents’ things—Dad’s jacket hanging on the hook, Mom’s scarf still faintly scented with perfume.

Why? I screamed in my head. I tried calling an aunt far away, but no one answered. That night’s sleep was fitful with nightmares. I saw myself abandoned in the forest, calling for my parents with no response.

And then the seventh day came. I woke up with one last hope. “They said they’d be back after a week,” I told myself, counting the hours. I cleaned the house, hoping they’d be surprised when they returned. But the sun set, darkness enveloped, and no car sounds came. I sat by the fridge, looking at that note again—the hasty writing, no final punctuation, as if they were in such a rush they didn’t want to stay another second.

At that moment, the truth hit me like a slap. They weren’t on a trip. They had abandoned me. That note wasn’t a promise. It was their gentlest way to vanish from a child’s life.

I collapsed on the kitchen floor, tears pouring uncontrollably. My heart ached as if torn apart.

Why? What did I do wrong? I sobbed loudly, the cries echoing in the empty house. I was a thirteen‑year‑old boy left with an enormous loneliness. My birthday wasn’t a joyful day, but the start of hell. I didn’t know what the future held—only that from now on I’d have to face the world alone.

The days that followed passed in a hazy fog of hunger and despair. My stomach growled incessantly, like a wild beast clawing from within. I drank water from the tap to fill the void of hunger, but it only made me dizzier. My body weakened visibly. My legs trembled when I stood up, my mind spinning with blurry images of past family meals.

On the tenth day—or maybe the eleventh or twelfth, I wasn’t sure anymore. Time had blurred in my mind by then. I lay on the floor, staring at the cracked wooden ceiling, feeling like the whole world was collapsing.

“What do I do now?” I whispered to myself, my voice hoarse from crying too much. I thought about calling the police, but the fear of being sent to an orphanage made me hesitate. In Eureka, people gossiped about places like that—cold, full of abandoned kids and no one who truly cared. I didn’t want to become part of that world.

Instead, I convinced myself: Just go out, find some food, maybe someone will help. But that thought was just as terrifying. Going out meant admitting I was alone—meant facing the curious stares of neighbors.

In the end, hunger won out. On a morning thick with fog when the sun barely peeked through the gray clouds, I decided to leave the house. I put on my dad’s old jacket, which was too big for my skinny frame, and stuffed the few remaining coins into my pocket. The house door creaked as I opened it, and the cold wind from the sea rushed in, carrying the salty, bitter scent.

The red dirt road leading to town now stretched endlessly, each step of mine heavy as if weighted with lead. I walked slowly, avoiding puddles from the night’s rain, my head bowed to avoid meeting anyone familiar. My heart pounded, anxious. If someone asks, what will I say? That my parents are away—or confess everything?

Eureka was a small town with winding cobblestone streets and a few scattered shops. I avoided the center where the school and crowded cafes were, for fear of running into friends or teachers. Instead, I wandered toward the outskirts, heading to the old bus station on the edge of town—a dusty place full of trucks and passing travelers. It was where people from everywhere gathered—refueling, grabbing quick bites before continuing their journeys. I thought maybe there, someone would notice me and give me a leftover piece of bread.

My stomach twisted in knots and I had to stop by the roadside, squatting to catch my breath. “Just a bit of food,” I muttered, tears welling up again. The anxiety built—what if no one helped, or I was chased away like a beggar?

The bus station came into view after nearly an hour of walking. It was a wide lot with an old gas pump, a few fast‑food stands, and buses parked haphazardly. The smell of gasoline mixed with the sizzle of frying food from the nearby diner made my stomach churn violently. I huddled in a corner, observing the people—weary drivers smoking, a few families buying drinks, and hurried passengers boarding buses. I tried approaching a kind‑looking man buying a sandwich, but when he turned, I panicked and backed away.

What do I look like? Dirty, starving. They’ll think I’m a vagrant, I told myself, my heart racing.

I wandered around the station, hoping someone would call my name—recognize me as Daniel Mountain’s son. But no one paid attention. Despair crashed over me again, making me slump onto the concrete steps, my head buried in my knees.

At that moment, a silver truck pulled up to the gas pump just a few meters away. The engine shut off abruptly, and the door opened. A tall man, about fifty years old, stepped out. He wore a brown leather jacket, his salt‑and‑pepper hair cut short, and his sharp eyes scanned the surroundings. He was Benjamin Mountain—my uncle—though I didn’t know it at the time. He was on his way from Portland to San Francisco, a long business trip to meet construction partners. He stopped to refuel and stretch his legs after hours of tiring driving. As he approached the pump, his gaze accidentally swept over me—the skinny boy huddled up with a dirty but strangely familiar face. He paused, frowning as if trying to recall something from a distant past.

My heart skipped a beat as he approached. I should run, I thought, but my body was too weak to move.

He stopped in front of me, his voice deep and warm but filled with concern. “Hey, kid, what are you doing here alone? What’s your name?”

I looked up, my eyes red and swollen, meeting his gaze. There was something about him that didn’t scare me—maybe the gentle smile, or the way he crouched down to my eye level.

“My name is Elijah,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “My house is nearby, but I’m looking for food.”

He nodded, not pressing immediately, but pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket and handed it to me. “Eat this—you look starving.” I took it, devouring it greedily, the bittersweet taste spreading and making tears fall again.

He sat down beside me, unhurried. “Where’s your home? Where are your parents?” he asked gently.

I hesitated, but then everything poured out like a river bursting its banks. I told him about my birthday, the note on the fridge, the days alone. When I mentioned the Mountains—and that my dad’s name was Daniel—he froze, his face paling.

“Daniel—my brother,” he muttered, his eyes widening in shock.

I didn’t understand then, but later I learned Benjamin was my dad’s younger brother, but they’d cut off contact years ago over a dispute about our grandfather’s inheritance. Grandfather had left a large piece of land in California, and my dad had fought bitterly over it, leading to deep resentment. Benjamin had never met me, but he recognized the face—the eyes, identical to my dad’s—and “Mountain” was a rare surname in the area.

“Take me to your house,” he said, his voice firm but full of worry. I nodded. On the way back, he asked more about my life, and I told everything, tears streaming. When we arrived, he stepped into the empty house and looked around, spotting the note still on the table. He read it, his face darkening.

“They left you,” he whispered, his voice filled with rage. He turned to me, hugging my shoulders tightly—the first embrace after so many lonely days. “It’s not your fault, Elijah. I’ll take you with me.”

At that moment, I didn’t know how to react. Suspense surged: go with a stranger? But he wasn’t a stranger—he was my uncle. And in his eyes, I saw sincerity. He briefly explained the strained relationship with my dad.

“Your dad and I had a big fight over land. Haven’t spoken in years. But you’re innocent, and I can’t leave you here alone.”

He called the local police to report, but didn’t let them take me. He convinced them he was family and would care for me. Then he packed a few of my things—clothes, books, an old family photo—and we got into his truck.

The drive from Eureka to Carmel‑by‑the‑Sea lasted hours, but to me it was like a dream. He stopped to buy food—hot sandwiches, fresh milk, and fruit—and I devoured it in the truck. He told me about his life. He owned a small construction company called Mountain Construction Group and lived in an old stone house by the sea in Carmel.

“It’s a peaceful place. You’ll like it,” he said, his voice warm.

I sat in the passenger seat watching the scenery pass—the pine forest giving way to rugged coastlines, waves crashing white. The fear gradually faded, replaced by a fragile hope.

When we arrived in Carmel‑by‑the‑Sea, the sun had set, and the old stone house appeared under the dim streetlights. It was a sturdy building with gray stone walls, a red‑tiled roof, and a garden full of wildflowers. Inside, it was cozy—with a crackling fireplace and the faint scent of pinewood. He led me to my own room, a small but clean space with a soft mattress and books on the shelves.

“From now on, this is your home,” he said, patting my shoulder. That was the first time I felt safe after those hellish days.

The early years living with my uncle in Carmel‑by‑the‑Sea were a time when I gradually learned to adapt to a completely new life—a life of discipline and order vastly different from the chaos I had known in Eureka. My uncle’s old stone house nestled by the seaside, with sturdy gray walls and a garden full of wildflowers blooming under the California sun.

Every morning, my uncle would wake at dawn, brewing strong black coffee in an old pot and calling me up with his deep, warm voice.

“Elijah, a new day has begun. Don’t let time slip away.”

I—the skinny thirteen‑year‑old boy—was initially groggy and unfamiliar, but gradually I got used to that rhythm. We’d have breakfast together, usually toasted bread with eggs and fresh fruit from the local market. And my uncle would always remind me, “Eating is to live, not living to eat. Be grateful for what you have.”

My uncle taught me the first lessons in discipline through the smallest things. He gave me an old leather‑bound notebook and said, “From now on, you’ll keep track of every expense in this. Even a penny for candy. Write it down.” I remember the first evening sitting at the wooden table under the dim yellow light, with my uncle beside me, guiding me to list: “Today I bought milk—$2. You bought school supplies—$5. Total? And why save?” I calculated clumsily, but my uncle patiently explained, “Money doesn’t grow on trees, Elijah. It comes from labor, and labor is the foundation of self‑respect. When you learn to manage money, you’ll learn to manage your life.”

Those lessons weren’t just theory. My uncle applied them right away in daily life. We’d go to the market together, choosing cheap but fresh vegetables, and he’d teach me how to bargain politely.

“Saving isn’t stinginess,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s respecting your own sweat.”

From that day on, my life changed. Uncle Benjamin didn’t give me luxuries, but real love through simple things. He taught me to cook, repair things, and manage time. Every evening, we’d sit by the fireplace, and he’d tell stories about the Mountain family, about the construction projects he’d done.

“True strength doesn’t come from money, Elijah,” he’d often say, his voice calm. “It comes from maintaining your character when no one’s around. You’ve done that these past days. You’re stronger than you think.”

For me, that was the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. Uncle Benjamin wasn’t my parents, but he was the one who saved me from the darkness.

I grew up quickly under my uncle’s love and discipline. At the local school—a small seaside institution with classrooms overlooking the ocean—I began to stand out. At first, I was shy, afraid of friends asking about my past, but gradually I excelled in studies. My classmates liked me. Teachers praised me.

“Elijah is the most mature boy in class.”

Uncle Benjamin was so proud. Every weekend, he’d take me to the office of Mountain Construction Group—a simple wooden building smelling of concrete and fresh wood—and show me off to the staff.

“This is my nephew, the future of the company.”

I’d blush, but my heart warmed. That was the first time I felt real recognition—not from blood ties, but from my own efforts.

But not everything was smooth. In that house, there was also David, my uncle’s biological son, a few years older than me. David was about seventeen then—tall and broad with blond hair and a charming smile. But his eyes were always cold when looking at me. At first, he didn’t openly hate me—it was just sly, long glances, sarcastic remarks.

“Dad, why did you bring home some random kid?” he once asked my uncle when I first arrived, whispering—but loud enough for me to hear from the next room.

Uncle Benjamin tried to explain. “This is Elijah, my real nephew—son of your uncle Daniel. He needs us.”

But David wouldn’t accept it. He grew up spoiled. My uncle said David’s mother died early, and he’d compensated by giving him everything. Now the attention my uncle gave me made David feel threatened.

The jealousy grew over the years. As I became an outstanding student, David became increasingly distant. At school, he was the popular guy with friends, but his grades were mediocre. Every time I brought home an excellent report card, Uncle Benjamin would smile proudly. “Elijah, you’ve done great.” David would sit in the corner of the table, his face darkening, muttering sarcastically, “Oh, the picked‑up kid is so talented, huh? Dad forgot his own son.”

My heart would tighten each time, but I’d stay silent, not wanting to upset my uncle. My uncle tried to mediate. “David, you can do it too—if you try.” But David just smirked and dove into his own world, partying with friends on the beach, borrowing my uncle’s car for night outings. I’d hear the car return late, the faint smell of alcohol—and my uncle shaking his head sadly.

Suspense began to creep into our peaceful life. I sensed the tension in the air—silent dinners where David ate quickly and left the table, leaving my uncle and me.

“Why does he hate me?” I once asked my uncle one night by the fireplace.

He sighed. “He’s afraid of losing his dad, Elijah.”

“But I love you both.”

I nodded. But deep down I worried. Would David do something to drive me away? Those nights I’d lie awake, listening to the waves crashing outside the window, wondering if this happiness would last.

Time passed. The year I turned eighteen, I graduated as valedictorian with a university scholarship. But I chose to stay in Carmel to study construction management through online courses while working for my uncle. David—after graduating late—was forced by my uncle to work at Mountain Construction Group.

“Both of you work to learn,” my uncle said, hoping it would bring us closer.

I started from the bottom—site assistant—humble and diligent. Every day I’d wake early, put on protective gear, and dive into work, measuring blueprints, supervising workers, learning to calculate costs.

“You’re doing well,” my uncle praised. And the staff liked me for my enthusiasm.

I quickly proved my ability. On a small seaside bridge project, I suggested a way to save materials while keeping it durable—and my uncle nodded in approval.

David was the opposite. He’d arrive late at the company dressed in a neat suit, but do nothing but sit in the office scrolling on his phone. He sank into partying, spending extravagantly—new cars, designer clothes, and weekend getaways with girlfriends.

“I’m the boss’s son. Why get dirty like the picked‑up kid?” he’d smirk when seeing me filthy from the site.

Uncle Benjamin warned him many times. “David, labor is the foundation. Don’t disappoint me.” But each warning made David more resentful. He’d whisper to the staff that Elijah is just good at buttering up. “Dad—he’s taking all the affection I deserve.”

I’d overhear those words vaguely, my heart aching, but I’d stay silent, focusing on work. The suspense grew. Would David do something extreme? Once he deliberately messed up a blueprint I assigned, causing delays, and my uncle had to intervene.

Those years passed in a fragile balance. The company grew thanks to my and my uncle’s efforts. But the shadow from David loomed larger. I remember one stormy evening when David came home drunk, slamming the door and yelling, “Dad, why are you letting that kid manage everything? I’m your real son!”

My uncle stayed silent, but I saw him tremble. My heart raced, suspense building as I waited for the storm to pass. Would this family break apart? I didn’t know—only that I had to be strong for my uncle and for myself.

Everything changed on a chilly autumn afternoon when Uncle Benjamin returned from the hospital with a weary face, deep‑set eyes, and labored breathing. He sat down in the armchair by the fireplace, holding the diagnosis paper, and called me over.

“Elijah, I have chronic pulmonary fibrosis,” he said, his voice calm, but I could hear the tremor. It was a vicious disease where the lungs gradually stiffened, turning breathing into a battle. The doctor said it progressed slowly—but for my uncle, who had worked tirelessly his whole life, it was like a silent storm.

He weakened day by day—from initial dry coughs to needing oxygen through clear plastic tubes. He stayed home, no longer going to the Mountain Construction Group office, just sitting by the window, gazing at the sea where the waves lapped steadily like his fading heartbeat.

I looked at him, my heart tightening. He had once been a strong, tall man, with calloused hands from construction sites. Now he was gaunt, his skin pale, and every step came with wheezing breaths.

“Don’t worry, Uncle. I’ll take care of you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

From that day on, I put work aside to be by his side. I noted his medication schedule—those small but crucial pills, from antibiotics to pain relievers—and reminded him to take them on time. I took him to physical therapy at the local hospital, driving slowly along the winding coastal roads, where the salty sea breeze blew through the windows. He sat in the passenger seat, oxygen tube around his nose, and we’d talk about old memories—about the day he found me at the Eureka bus station, about the company’s first projects.

Those trips were filled with suspense. Would he suddenly tire? Would a coughing fit strike? I always kept a spare oxygen tank ready, my heart racing every time he gasped for breath. Late at night when he slept, I’d finally breathe a sigh of relief—but then worry again. How would he be in the morning?

Life became a string of suspenseful days where each of his breaths was a reminder of life’s fragility.

David, my brother, visited occasionally—but each time with evident impatience. He’d drive up in a shiny sports car, park in the yard, step inside in his neat suit, but his eyes always glanced at his watch.

“Dad, I’m here to visit,” he’d say in a fake tone, sitting down for barely ten minutes before standing up. “I’m busy in the city. See you next time.”

Uncle Benjamin would look at him sadly. “Stay for dinner, David.”

But David always refused, citing work or parties. I’d stand in the kitchen hearing it all—my heart aching. Did he realize Uncle was weakening day by day? Or was he just waiting for something else?

Every time he saw me caring for Uncle, David would drop sarcastic remarks like needles piercing the quiet air. Once, while I was helping Uncle put on his oxygen tube, he walked in and smirked.

“Oh, the picked‑up kid playing the beautiful son again. No matter how hard you try, you’re just a side character in this family.”

I paused, my heart pounding, but didn’t respond. He continued, his voice louder.

“The real heir is always the biological son—not someone picked up from a bus station.”

Those words cut like knives, stirring memories of Eureka. But I chose silence. I knew Uncle needed peace more than pointless arguments.

“David, that’s enough,” Uncle said weakly. But David just shrugged and left, leaving a heavy atmosphere.

I turned back to Uncle, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Don’t mind him, Uncle.” But deep down, suspense surged. Would David’s hatred explode? Would he do something to push me out of the picture?

Winter arrived, bringing cold winds from the sea and thick fog enveloping Carmel. One early winter morning, I woke up as usual, brewed coffee, and stepped into Uncle’s room. He lay there, peaceful in sleep—but when I called, he didn’t respond. My heart skipped. I approached and touched his hand—cold.

“Uncle!” I screamed, my voice breaking.

He had passed in his sleep, leaving a vast emptiness in the quiet house. I collapsed by the bed, tears streaming—memories flooding like a torrent: the day he saved me, lessons by the fireplace, his proud smile at my successes. The house was now silent, only the distant waves crashing like a farewell.

I called the doctor, called David, my voice trembling. “Brother—David—Uncle, he’s gone.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m coming right away.” That pain tore at my heart, but I had to be strong—arrange the funeral, notify the company staff.

The funeral took place by the seaside under a gray sky, where we scattered his ashes to the wind, as he had instructed. “Let me return to the sea.”

Then came the day of the will reading, in the small lawyer’s office in central Carmel, with dark wooden walls and a heavy atmosphere. I sat there next to David—he in a black suit, his face cold—but I sensed his suspense. The lawyer, an old man with glasses, opened the yellowed folder.

“According to Benjamin Mountain’s will, all assets—shares in Mountain Construction Group and real estate—will go to Elijah Mountain.”

The air froze. I was stunned—my heart racing. All of it. I’d never thought of that.

David gave an incredulous smile, as if waiting for a joke—but then his face flushed red, anger spreading. He jumped up, slamming the table with a loud crack, snatching the will from the lawyer’s hands.

“What the hell is this? Forgery! This is forgery!” he yelled, his voice shrill, face twisted. “That Elijah manipulated Dad when he was sick. He was by Dad’s side the whole time, forcing him to sign this.”

I sat still, not reacting—but my heart ached. Those accusations felt like stabbing knives. The lawyer tried to intervene.

“The will was made two years ago, when Mr. Benjamin was healthy, and it’s notarized.”

But David didn’t listen. He threw a glass, shattering it on the floor, and threatened to sue the whole company.

“I won’t let you steal everything! I’m the real son!”

Chaos ensued—people trying to hold him back—but David shoved them away, his eyes bloodshot, glaring at me. I still sat silent, the quiet between us becoming suffocating. That was the moment everything shifted. From now on, I was no longer the rescued child, but the one bearing the entire legacy—along with the curse of the Mountain family.

After that will‑reading session, David stormed out of the lawyer’s office in a rage, his face flushed red like it was on fire. He didn’t glance at me even once, just bolted for the door—his hard‑soled shoes pounding loudly on the wooden floor. I faintly heard him muttering, “He stole everything from me. Everything.”

From then on, David vanished from Mountain Construction Group. He sent a curt resignation email with no explanation and cut off all contact with me. But I knew—deep in his heart—hatred was boiling. David believed I had stolen everything that was rightfully his: the company, the house, Uncle Benjamin’s legacy. To him, I wasn’t a brother or a nephew. I was just an outsider—someone who had manipulated to seize it all.

I sat alone in the Carmel office, gazing at the gray sea, my heart heavy. Suspense began to creep in. What would he do? I tried to push the thought away, focusing on taking over the company, but deep down I sensed a shadow enveloping everything.

The first weeks after Uncle Benjamin’s funeral were truly difficult. I had to stabilize the company, meet with employees, sign new contracts, and handle the pile of will documents. Everyone at Mountain Construction looked at me with respect, but also worry.

“Boss Elijah, where’s David?”

I just smiled faintly. “He needs some time.”

But in reality, I didn’t know where David was. He had moved to Los Angeles, renting a luxurious apartment with the little savings he had left—and began plotting. I didn’t know anything at first. Everything happened in the shadows, like a brewing storm. David, fueled by burning jealousy, started contacting our competitors—big construction firms on the West Coast, always eager to swallow up Mountain Construction. He’d meet them in dimly lit bars, whispering exchanges of secret project information he had accessed while still working there.

“Elijah is laundering money through the company,” he’d fabricate, his voice full of hatred. “I have proof—shady expenses, international transfers.”

Those lies spread like venom, making some partners hesitate to collaborate with us. I noticed the first sign when a major project—building a seaside residential area in Monterey—had its information leaked. We were preparing to bid with a detailed plan known only to a few. Suddenly, our main competitors submitted an identical proposal with slightly lower costs.

How did they…? I wondered, sitting in the office, my hands trembling as I held the report. Employees whispered, “Maybe it’s a coincidence.” But I felt something was wrong. Suspense grew. Someone was betraying us.

I strengthened security, changed system passwords, but it was too late. David had gone further. He used his remaining money to hire hackers—those lurking on the dark web, specializing in dirty work. They breached the company’s system through a small vulnerability, stealing bid files and internal emails, and anonymously sending them to the local press.

The next morning, I opened the newspaper—my heart skipping. The headline blared: “Mountain Construction Suspected of Money Laundering—Internal Info Leaked.” The article quoted project details along with accusations that I was hiding illegal transactions. The phone rang off the hook—partners calling to question, employees panicking—and the company’s stock plummeting. I slumped into my chair, my mind reeling.

“Who did this?” I muttered, clenching the newspaper. The pain from Uncle Benjamin’s death still lingered, now compounded by the fear of losing everything.

I hired cybersecurity experts to check, and they confirmed the system was hacked remotely—with traces leading to an IP address in Los Angeles. My heart pounded. David. But I didn’t dare believe it.

Meanwhile, David smirked in his apartment, watching the news on TV. He’ll collapse, he thought, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. But the plan wasn’t enough. When he saw my company still holding firm—thanks to me publicly transparentizing the books, proving all accusations false—David went mad.

“It’s not over yet,” he muttered, moving to the next step—hiring people to tail me.

From then on, my life became a series of dramatically suspenseful days. I sensed it—strange cars parked outside the office, shadows following me as I drove home. One evening, driving on the winding coastal road in Carmel with the strong sea wind blowing through the window, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black car tailing closely. My heart pounded.

Who are they?

I sped up, but the black car did, too. Then suddenly it surged forward, forcing my car toward the cliff. The screech of metal colliding pierced the air. My car flipped sideways, rolling several times down the slope.

I woke up in the hospital, my head throbbing, my body bruised but—luckily—only minor injuries: broken ribs and a few cuts. The doctor said, “You nearly died.”

I lay there, staring at the white ceiling, tears streaming.

“Why? Who wants to kill me?”

The police got involved immediately, investigating the accident. They found the offending car abandoned nearby and traced the license plate. It belonged to a small transport company in Los Angeles, secretly registered under David’s name through a shell company.

That shock hit like lightning. I sat in the hospital room, holding the police report, my hands shaking. David—my brother—the one who grew up with me under Uncle Benjamin’s roof—had staged the accident to kill me. My heart ached, not from fear, but from sadness.

“Why such hatred?” I whispered.

The investigation expanded quickly, revealing a series of illegal transactions. David had bribed officials for information, illegally transferred money to hackers and stalkers—all to serve his revenge plot. The police raided his house in Los Angeles—a lavish apartment with expensive furnishings—and arrested him on the spot. David struggled, yelling, “I’m innocent. It’s Elijah’s fault.” But the evidence piled up—emails, bank transfers, and confessions from the arrested hacker.

The trial took place in a Los Angeles courtroom under glaring lights and a tense atmosphere. I flew there, sitting in the audience row—not resentful, just silently observing. David appeared in prisoner garb, his face gaunt, his eyes avoiding mine. The prosecutor presented the evidence—from selling information to hiring hackers, then the accident—proving attempted murder, intentional injury, and violations of corporate finance laws.

David defended, “I was robbed of my inheritance. Elijah manipulated my dad.” But the judge shook his head.

“That’s no excuse for crime.”

The sentence was pronounced—twenty years in prison. David collapsed, sobbing. But I just quietly left without a word. My heart was heavy. He had once been my brother—even if not by blood—but now he was just a ghost of hatred.

After the trial, I returned to Carmel, holding a press conference to reveal the full truth.

“Mountain Construction is clean,” I said, my voice steady, presenting transparent evidence.

The company’s reputation was cleared, partners returned, and projects continued. The story closed with the one harboring jealousy paying the price for his own hatred—David sitting in prison, reflecting on his mistakes—and I, for the first time, lived truly free from the shadows of the past. The Carmel sea still crashed its waves, and I stood there, feeling the sea breeze carry away all burdens.

But freedom, no matter how sweet, was just a lull before a new storm.

After David’s trial, I officially took over Mountain Construction Group as chairman—the position Uncle Benjamin had trusted me to inherit. The Carmel office now became my center, with glass walls overlooking the deep blue sea where the waves lapped steadily like my stabilized heartbeat. I began restructuring the organization immediately—not out of ambition, but to honor Uncle’s legacy.

The company—once shaken by David’s accusations—now needed a fresh push. I fired a few dishonest employees—those David had bribed—and hired young, passionate engineers. We expanded into green infrastructure, building structures using solar energy, rainwater recycling systems, and eco‑friendly urban areas.

“We’re not just building houses,” I said in the first meeting, my voice warm but firm, “but also constructing a sustainable future for the next generations.”

The first months were so busy that I forgot to eat. Every morning, I’d wake at dawn, brew strong black coffee like Uncle used to, and sit at the old wooden table where he often told stories of the past. I’d review financial reports, negotiate with suppliers, and lead the team.

My personal life changed, too. I bought a small house by the sea, not far from the company, with a garden full of wildflowers and the soothing sound of waves. I started jogging every morning, feeling the salty sea breeze on my skin—like chasing away old memories. Friends—close colleagues—invited me out, but I’d often decline, choosing to be alone to think.

“Elijah, you need to live for yourself,” Ella—my assistant—once said. She was the only one who knew the whole story, and sometimes we’d sit drinking coffee, sharing about the past.

A year passed in a flash. That summer, the government announced a project to build an eco‑urban area along the Monterey coast—a massive contract, the largest in the company’s history. It was a green city with thousands of eco‑friendly apartments, parks, schools, and sustainable transportation systems. The contract value reached billions of dollars, potentially deciding Mountain Construction’s future. Win, and we’d expand nationwide. Lose, and we’d have to cut staff.

The news spread quickly in the press, and my office was flooded with calls.

“This is a golden opportunity,” I told the leadership in an emergency meeting—my voice full of excitement but also worry. My heart pounded. This wasn’t just a project. It was a challenge to prove myself after all the upheavals.

I personally led the team in the bidding process. We worked tirelessly, day and night, in the office—with coffee and pizza as companions. I drew designs, calculated costs, and met with environmental experts to ensure the green aspect was genuine—using recycled materials, offshore wind energy, and advanced water filtration systems.

“We have to excel,” I motivated the team, my eyes sparkling.

After many fierce elimination rounds, dozens of major competitors were knocked out—giant companies from New York or Texas with huge budgets but lacking creativity. Each round was a battle—presenting ideas, answering questions from the state committee, and waiting for results in suspense.

I remember the night before the third elimination round. I couldn’t sleep, lying, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding. What would Uncle Benjamin think if we lose? But we advanced—and finally only two companies remained: my Mountain Construction and a firm called Summit Design and Build—an unfamiliar name, but their profile showed strength in high‑end construction.

When reviewing the competitor’s project profile sent via email from the committee, I froze—as if struck by lightning. I sat in the office, afternoon sunlight streaming through the window onto the screen. In the leadership list, the name “Daniel Mountain”—my biological father—appeared crystal clear: founder and chairman. Next to it was “Ruth Mountain”—my biological mother—as financial director.

My heart clenched as if squeezed. A flood of memories rushed back like a torrent—the hastily scribbled note on the fridge door in Eureka: “We’re going to a friend’s house. Will be back in a week.” The empty wooden house. Wind howling through the cracks. And me, a thirteen‑year‑old boy huddled—waiting. The old, rain‑soaked bus station where I wandered hungry, hoping someone would recognize me.

Tears welled in my eyes—not from sadness, but from rage and chill. They—my biological parents—had abandoned me that year, and now successful—with their own company—they had never once sought me out. No calls. No letters. Nothing.

“Do they know I’m here?” I muttered, my hand clenching the mouse. “Summit Design and Build.” The name sounded foreign, but now it was like a knife reopening an old wound. I stood up, walked to the balcony, looking out at the glistening Monterey Bay. The sea breeze blew strongly, carrying the salty scent—but it couldn’t dispel the storm in my heart.

“Why now?” I asked myself, my heart racing. This project wasn’t just bidding. It was a confrontation with the past I thought I’d buried—Daniel and Ruth, once my parents, now competitors. I imagined their faces—Dad with salt‑and‑pepper hair, Mom with a fake smile. They had built Summit from nothing after abandoning me—and now they wanted to snatch my opportunity.

Rage surged. “Have they ever regretted it?” But mixed in was a chill—the pain of the abandoned child, now a man facing them. I knew if I withdrew, I’d avoid the bitter confrontation. Just send an email to the committee: “Mountain Construction withdraws.” That would be it. No face to face, no memories flooding back, no pain.

I sat back down, looking at the profile again—my heart pounding as I gripped the mouse. Withdrawing is easy, I thought. But if I do that, I deny everything I’ve strived to prove—from the abandoned boy in Eureka to the one rescued by Uncle Benjamin, then overcoming David’s plot—all to prove I’m worthy. Withdrawing meant admitting the past still controlled me—that I was still afraid.

No. I shook my head, tears streaming. I wouldn’t let them win without a fight. I decided to continue.

I called a leadership meeting that very evening, in the lit conference room with the faint smell of coffee.

“Mountain Construction will see this through,” I said, my voice resolute—though my heart still trembled. “Not for fame, but to prove the value of those who know how to build with integrity.”

Everyone nodded, but I saw worried eyes.

“Boss, the competitor is strong.”

I smiled. “We’re stronger because we have heart.”

From then on, we dove into preparations—refining designs, gathering environmental data, and practicing presentations. Each day was a suspenseful battle. Did they know who I was? Would the past repeat? I lost sleep many nights, lying, thinking about the upcoming encounter—my heart pounding like a drum.

The weeks preparing for the final presentation were the most stressful time in my life. The office of Mountain Construction Group in Carmel had now become a real battlefield—papers piled high on desks, computer screens glowing all night, and the incessant clacking of keyboards. Every morning I’d wake up early, jogging along the beach to chase away my worries. But the sea breeze only brought the salty, bitter scent, reminding me of the days wandering in Eureka.

“Who are they to me now?” I asked myself, my feet pounding hard on the wet sand. Daniel and Ruth—my biological parents—were now competitors with their powerful Summit Design and Build. I researched more about them, stealthily, like a thief. They had built Summit in the years after abandoning me, starting with small projects in Southern California, then expanding into an empire. Not a single mention of their son.

My heart ached. Have they never looked for me?

Every time I reviewed Summit’s profile, I’d pause at the names “Daniel” and “Ruth”—memories flooding back: my father’s stern face, teaching me wood carving; my mother’s warm smile, telling bedtime stories; then the note on the fridge door; the empty house; and the enormous loneliness.

“Why?” I whispered in the night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rage mixed with fear. If I met them, could I stay calm? Would they recognize me—Elijah Mountain, the child they left behind?

The day of the final presentation arrived like a storm crashing in. I drove to the state government headquarters in Sacramento, a few hours from Carmel. The coastal highway wound along, the strong sea breeze blowing through the window—carrying the scent of pine forests and ocean. My heart pounded the whole way.

Today is the day.

I wore a neat black suit, hair combed, but my hands gripped the steering wheel until they turned white.

“Stay calm,” I whispered.

The headquarters was a modern glass building with the California state flag fluttering. I parked, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. The atmosphere inside was buzzing—hallways full of people, lively chatter, reporters with cameras at the ready, investors in elegant suits, and state officials bustling about. I picked up my attendee badge, my heart pounding.

Have they arrived yet?

The large conference room was brightly lit with white lights—featuring a long, U‑shaped wooden table and a massive projection screen. The seats were packed—about a hundred people—from reporters to experts. Murmurs echoed, the smell of coffee and perfume mingling. I walked in, composed, but my heart heavy. My team sat on one side, nodding encouragement.

Then I saw them—Daniel and Ruth—sitting opposite, representing Summit Design and Build. My father—now about sixty—white hair, a stern face etched with deep wrinkles. My mother—still elegant, hair neatly bunched—but her eyes averted. They didn’t look at me right away, whispering to their team. My heart skipped. They know now.

Reporters whispered: “Two companies with the same Mountain name—strange.”

I sat down, my hands slightly trembling, memories surging like wild waves: the rainy Eureka bus station; Uncle Benjamin saving me; now, facing those who abandoned me. I felt like that thirteen‑year‑old boy returning—but I pushed it away.

I am Elijah Mountain—chairman.

The chairperson—a high‑ranking state official—rapped the gavel. The meeting began.

“Today, we’ll hear presentations from the two final candidates—Mountain Construction Group and Summit Design and Build.”

A pause rang out. Mountain Construction’s name was called first. Daniel paused slightly—I saw it clearly. He stopped whispering, his eyes widening as he looked at me. Ruth bowed her head, her hands clenching the documents, not daring to look directly. My heart pounded. They know.

I stood up, stepped to the podium—microphone in front. The lights were blinding—but I stayed calm.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, my voice steady. “Mountain Construction Group is proud to present the Monterey Eco‑Urban Project—a sustainable vision for the future.”

I presented professionally, each word honed. I spoke about the sustainable strategy: “We use 100% solar energy, rainwater recycling systems, and native greenery to reduce carbon.” Slides projected—transparent charts, data verified by independent experts. I emphasized costs: “Every expense is transparent—no hidden fees—ensuring long‑term benefits for the community.” The project would create jobs for locals, build free schools and parks—in the true spirit of building not just homes, but lives. That was what Uncle Benjamin had taught: “Build with integrity, Elijah.”

I spoke with a stirred heart—memories of him flooding back—but I didn’t show it. Reporters scribbled furiously. Investors nodded. Daniel and Ruth sat silent—he staring at me intently; she still with her head down. Suspense surged. What are they thinking?

My part ended amid applause. I sat down—sweat beading on my forehead—but my heart somewhat lighter.

Then it was Summit Design and Build’s turn. Daniel stood—his voice deep but confident.

“Summit is proud to bring a world‑class project…”

Their presentation was impressive—flashy slides, stunning 3D images—promising the most luxurious urban area on the West Coast. But I noticed the showiness—unusually low‑cost figures, lacking independent verification, and focused more on profits than community.

“We commit to early completion,” Ruth added, her voice slightly trembling, still avoiding my gaze.

Reporters asked, “Where’s the sustainability data from?” They stammered: “From internal sources.” My heart raced. They’re exposing weaknesses.

Throughout the meeting, I stayed calm—avoiding any personal emotions. When the committee asked me why choose sustainability, I answered, “Because we’re building for future generations, not short‑term profits.”

Daniel looked at me—something flashing in his eyes: recognition, regret. I didn’t know—just focused on the composure of an adult. I faced the past with respect—respect for myself, not them.

The meeting lasted two hours, with relentless questions. The atmosphere tensed to the point of suffocation. Each answer was a battle. Would the committee see the difference? Would reporters dig into the Mountain family connection?

Finally, the meeting ended in silence. The chairperson rapped the gavel. “Thank you to both sides. Results will be announced later.”

Sparse applause. Everyone stood. I stepped out of that room, my legs slightly shaky—but my head held high. Reporters swarmed.

“Mr. Elijah, what’s the relationship with Summit?”

I smiled. “Just competitors.” But in my heart, I knew this wasn’t just bidding. It was the first time I directly faced those who abandoned me—and this time, I wouldn’t bow my head.

The drive back to Carmel stretched endlessly—the sea breeze blowing—and I felt true freedom. No longer afraid of the past.

A week later, the suspense reached its peak. The bidding results were announced at the Monterey Conference Center—a modern seaside building with a large hall and brightly lit stage. I accepted the invitation to attend, though my heart still raced every time I thought about it. It was a major event. The media gathered—cameras flashing incessantly—big businesses from across the West Coast present and state officials seated in the front row.

I wore a simple gray suit, entering the hall with my team—Ella by my side, whispering, “Boss will win.” But I wasn’t sure. Summit was strong, and with Daniel and Ruth leading, they might pull some tricks. The atmosphere was stifling—murmurs echoing: “Two Mountain companies—strange.” I sat in the row reserved for candidates, my heart pounding like a drum. Opposite, Daniel and Ruth sat there—he with a stern face, she with careful makeup but anxious eyes. They avoided looking at me, but I sensed the tension spreading.

The ceremony began with a speech from the state governor, praising the eco‑urban project as the future of California. Then came the announcement. The chairperson—a middle‑aged man with a booming voice—held the microphone.

“After careful consideration, the winning bidder is—Mountain Construction Group.”

My company’s name rang out—the hall erupting in applause. I stood up, bowing slightly in thanks—my heart a mix of pride and emptiness. Pride because we won—the billion‑dollar project that would transform Monterey, creating jobs for thousands. But emptiness because this victory wasn’t just a deal. It was an answer to the past. I had defeated the very people who once abandoned me—on the very business battlefield they pursued. My heart tightened.

This is for Uncle Benjamin—and for that thirteen‑year‑old boy.

In the opposite row, Daniel froze. His face drained of life, as if all vitality had been sucked out. He sat motionless, eyes wide, staring at the stage—his hands gripping the armrests until they turned white. Ruth tried to stay composed, but her hands trembled as she clapped along with the crowd—her gaze darting toward me in panic before quickly averting. They hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected that the son they left behind at thirteen in Eureka would be the one to defeat them on the business stage.

I saw the shock clearly. Daniel whispered something to his assistant, his face pale, while Ruth bit her lip, her eyes red and swollen.

Reporters rushed to take photos, and I faintly heard murmurs: “Summit lost. They look shocked.”

My heart raced. Would they approach me? Would there be any explanation after all these years? But there wasn’t. The ceremony ended quickly—people congratulating me, handshakes, pats on the back.

“Congratulations, Mr. Mountain.”

I smiled in response—but my eyes still glanced toward them. Daniel and Ruth left hastily, weaving through the crowd without a word. I stood there amid the applause, but my heart was heavy. The victory was sweet—but also bitter. It stirred memories I thought I’d buried.

The media quickly exploited the story. The next morning, local papers published: “Two Mountain Companies Clash—Who Wins?” They dug deep, interviewing former employees—and then the bomb dropped. A former Summit employee who once worked with Daniel revealed the family connection.

“Daniel and Ruth had a son—but they abandoned the boy at thirteen to pursue their careers,” he said in an interview with the Monterey Herald.

The news spread like wildfire—from local papers to statewide, onto social media—with the hashtag #MountainFamilyDrama. Public outrage surged.

“How could they abandon their own child for money? What kind of parents are they?”

Articles detailed my story—from the abandoned boy in Eureka to the successful chairman—and condemned Daniel and Ruth as betrayers. Reporters called me non‑stop.

“Mr. Elijah—comment on your biological parents?”

I declined. “I’m focused on the project.”

The public buzzed, though Daniel and Ruth didn’t comment. Their silence only fueled the fire. Some Summit partners paused collaborations—emails canceling meetings, calls declining. A few shareholders demanded clarification.

“We don’t want to be involved in a family scandal.”

Summit Design and Build fell into a defensive position—their stock plummeting on the small exchange. I followed from afar through the press—my heart pounding. Justice is unfolding.

Daniel tried to control the situation. He issued a press release: “We respect the committee’s decision and congratulate our competitor. Regarding personal matters—that’s private past.” But the company’s image was clearly damaged. Employees quitting. Other projects delayed.

Ruth was devastated. According to rumors, she avoided public appearances while Daniel faced the collapse of the reputation and career he’d built his whole life. Daniel tried to reassure the press in an emergency meeting—but every justification became meaningless.

“We did what was best at the time,” he said, his voice trembling before the microphones.

But the crowd jeered. “Best for whom? For your son?”

Ruth didn’t appear—but old photos of her circulated, her fixed smile beside Daniel—now a symbol of betrayal.

I stayed silent, issuing no statements. I understood that justice had done its part. No need for another word from the one once left behind. But in my heart, the pain still lingered. Do they regret it?

I sat at my desk, looking at the new project contract—but my mind wandered. This victory brought freedom—but also reopened old wounds.

The days following the announcement of the bidding results saw public opinion gradually subside. But for me, it was like an undercurrent still rippling. The press shifted to praising Mountain Construction Group—the ethical company that defeated the giant—and congratulatory calls poured in non‑stop. I received them with a polite smile. But every night, lying in bed in my seaside house in Carmel, I’d think about Daniel and Ruth—their faces in the Sacramento meeting room still haunting me: my father’s stunned expression, my mother’s averted gaze.

Do they truly hurt? I asked myself, listening to the waves crashing outside the window.

That victory wasn’t revenge. It was the result of effort. But it made me realize that the past had never truly left. It had only hibernated, waiting for a chance to awaken.

Our company expanded rapidly. My life now was busy but peaceful—mornings jogging along the beach, afternoons in meetings, evenings reading by the fireplace. Ella, my assistant, had become a close friend.

“You’ve changed, boss. You seem freer.”

I smiled. “Maybe so.” But that freedom was still fragile. I often thought about Daniel and Ruth—following scattered news about Summit. Their company was crumbling—projects canceled, mass resignations, and shareholder lawsuits. One article read: “Summit Design and Build—From Peak to Abyss Due to Family Scandal.”

My heart tightened each time I read it—not from glee, but from sadness. “They were once my parents,” I whispered. Suspense crept in. Would they contact me? Would there be any explanation after all these years of silence?

I pushed the thought away, focusing on work—but deep down the wound still bled.

Then one late‑year afternoon, when California’s winter brought cold winds and thick fog enveloping Monterey, the office phone rang loudly. Ella picked up—then looked at me with a strange expression.

“Boss—Mr. Daniel and Mrs. Ruth Mountain request a meeting. They say it’s personal.”

My heart skipped, as if squeezed. “Them,” I muttered, my hand clenching the pen. Suspense surged—after all this time. After the victory, they came.

“Let them in,” I said—my voice calm, but my mind reeling. I stood up, looking out at Monterey Bay through the glass—the waves crashing strongly, heavy gray clouds.

What will I say? How will I feel?

Memories flooded—the note on the fridge, the empty Eureka house, and the enormous loneliness. But I took a deep breath. I’m not that boy anymore.

They entered the office—Daniel and Ruth—looking much older than at Sacramento. Daniel—now nearly seventy—with snow‑white hair, slightly hunched back, wearing an old coat. Ruth—wrinkled skin, dark circles under her eyes—in a simple long dress. They looked tired, their eyes heavy with regret—no longer the confident entrepreneurs.

“Elijah,” Daniel said first, his voice trembling. They sat down opposite, their hands clasped tightly, as if seeking support. The office was silent—only the ticking clock and the howling wind outside. My heart raced, suspense building. What are they here for? To apologize—or to demand?

Daniel cleared his throat, his eyes on the floor. “We’re here to apologize.”

Those words exploded slowly in my heart. Ruth continued, her voice choked. “That year—we left you behind. We thought it was for the best. At the time, we were poor—no future—and we wanted to start over. But it was the biggest mistake of our lives.”

They recounted—voices trembling. After leaving me in Eureka, they moved south, starting Summit with nothing. Success came—but the guilt grew. “Losing reputation and career after the bidding hurts less than losing our own son,” Daniel said, his eyes red. “We followed you from afar—through the press—stories about Benjamin. But we were afraid—afraid you wouldn’t forgive,” Ruth cried. “Son—I’m sorry. I’ve never forgotten you—but the shame was too great.”

I listened silently—without reacting, without blaming. Their words cut like knives into my heart. Eureka memories revived—eating dry bread, hopeless waiting, and the fear of being discovered alone. Rage welled up.

“Why didn’t you come back? Why leave me alone?”

But I restrained myself—looking at them, two old, broken people. I understood that some wounds don’t need retaliation—just time to heal.

“I… I’ve heard,” I said gently, my voice steady. They looked at me—hope flickering—but I didn’t hug them, didn’t forgive immediately. It wasn’t hatred. It was the necessary distance.

As they stood to leave, I escorted them to the office door. The wind blew coldly in, carrying the scent of impending rain.

“Take care,” I said, shaking hands lightly.

They looked at me, eyes glistening.

“Son, if you could—”

But I shook my head lightly. The past is gone.

They left—their figures fading down the hallway—and I closed the door, leaning against the wall. My heart ached, tears streaming—not from disdain, but the way I chose to close the past in silence. That encounter was like a fleeting wind—carrying their regret, but not changing me. I returned to my desk, looking at the contracts, and breathed deeply.

I’m free now.

From then on, Daniel and Ruth withdrew from the business world. They sold Summit cheaply—dissolved the company—and moved to live discreetly in Sacramento, in a small house by the river, far from the city lights. Scattered news: they donated the remaining assets to charity—supporting disadvantaged children, building shelters. One article wrote: “The Mountain couple seeks redemption through philanthropy.” I read it with peace in my heart—not glee, not resentment. They were trying to make amends in their own way.

As for me—Elijah—I continued leading Mountain Construction with renewed vitality. The company grew tremendously. The Monterey project completed early, winning international awards for sustainability. I opened the Benjamin Foundation—supporting orphans and at‑risk youth: scholarships, housing, and counseling.

“This is for kids like I once was,” I said at the foundation’s launch, my voice emotional. The foundation quickly attracted donations, and I dedicated personal time—visiting shelters, telling stories about Uncle Benjamin. For me, forgiveness didn’t mean forgetting—but stopping the past from controlling the present. I still remembered Eureka—the note—but now it was motivation, not chains. My new life was proof that kindness and integrity are the greatest legacy one can leave.

I married Ella—the one who understood me best—and we had children, teaching them about honesty. Every birthday, I’d look at the Carmel sea, remember Uncle, and smile.

Thank you, life. The pain was still there—but it made me stronger.

Now, as I sit writing these lines, I—Elijah Mountain—look back on my journey like a long book full of dark chapters and unexpected lights. My life isn’t a fairy tale, but a real journey where every step carries harsh lessons. I want to share messages, lessons, and advice from what I’ve experienced—not to boast, but in the hope that someone who is lost can find a bit of light.

My past began on that thirteenth birthday when I was abandoned in Eureka—a boy with enormous loneliness, eating dry bread and waiting hopelessly. That was the start of hell—but also the foundation for everything that followed. Remember: the past doesn’t define you. It’s just the first brick you use to build the future. I once thought I was a victim—an abandoned child. But that very pain taught me to stand up. If I let the past control me, I’d forever be the boy huddled by the fridge, looking at the hastily written note. Instead, I chose to build—one day at a time—with trembling hands at first.

Now, at this age, I see life like the Carmel sea—waves crashing endlessly. But you can learn to surf them instead of letting the waves drown you. My journey was full of suspense—from loneliness to plots, from confrontation to forgiveness—but it taught me that life is worth living when you build with your heart.

Thank you for reading. I hope this message helps you become stronger. Take care. Good luck.