Aiden stared at the flickering screen of his computer, the monotony of the office surrounding him. His hands rested on the keyboard, but he hadn’t typed a single word in what felt like hours. The endless stream of emails, the reports, the meaningless meetings—they blurred together in a haze of gray that had long since swallowed his sense of purpose.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, tired sigh. His eyes drifted toward the small book sitting at the edge of his desk, the one he always kept close but never had the time to open anymore. It was an old, leather-bound volume, a relic from his childhood, one of many his grandfather had given him over the years. Just looking at it stirred something deep within him—an urge to escape, to leave everything behind and lose himself in the world of stories and knowledge that had once been his sanctuary.

But that was a different life. A life before everything started to suck.

The dull murmur of office chatter faded into the background as Aiden’s thoughts wandered. His grandfather. The man who had introduced him to books, who had filled his young mind with wonder and curiosity. His childhood had been shaped by those moments in his grandfather’s study, sitting together for hours, the smell of old paper and ink filling the air. But as Aiden grew older, life got in the way. Jobs, responsibilities, the grind of adulthood. The stories and the books faded into the background, just like everything else.

A sudden buzz in his pocket pulled him from his thoughts. He frowned, fishing out his phone and glancing at the screen. An unknown number.

He hesitated. Normally, he wouldn’t answer. But something made him swipe the screen.

“Aiden Reynolds?”

The voice was unfamiliar, brisk, and professional.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, sitting up a little straighter. “Who’s this?”

“This is Detective Morrison from the county sheriff’s office. I’m calling regarding your grandfather, Arthur Reynolds.”

Aiden froze. His heart skipped a beat.

“What about him?” His voice came out more anxious than he intended.

There was a pause on the other end, long enough to make Aiden’s stomach twist.

“I’m afraid there’s been a development,” the detective said slowly, carefully choosing her words. “Your grandfather has been reported missing. Given the circumstances, we believe he may be… presumed dead.”

The words hit Aiden like a physical blow. He felt the air leave his lungs, the world around him narrowing to that single, horrifying sentence.

“Dead?” he whispered. “What… what do you mean presumed dead? How can you just presume that?”

“We found his house in disarray,” the detective continued, her voice steady but empathetic. “It looks like he left suddenly, and there’s no sign of him anywhere. We’ve been investigating for a while now, but there’s nothing. No leads. We think something may have happened to him.”

Aiden sat there, unable to speak. His mind spun, a hundred thoughts colliding all at once. It didn’t make sense. His grandfather couldn’t just be gone. He was always so… there, in his own world, maybe, but there.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds. I know this is a lot to take in. I have your lawyer here with me who wants to talk about inheritance-”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Aiden didn’t respond. The phone slipped from his hand, landing with a dull thud on the desk. Aiden sat there, unable to speak. His mind spun, a hundred thoughts colliding all at once. It didn’t make sense. His grandfather couldn’t just be gone. He was always so… there, in his own world, maybe, but there.

His mind drifted, the sterile office around him fading as memories of his childhood began to surface, unbidden. He remembered the warm summer afternoons spent at his grandfather’s house. He must have been no more than seven or eight then, a quiet, curious child who found solace in the strange, cluttered corners of his grandfather's world. The house itself had always felt like a labyrinth of secrets—old wooden floors creaking under the weight of history, shelves that towered above him, filled with books he was too young to understand. Yet his grandfather never seemed to mind his presence.

“Here, Aiden,” his grandfather would say with a soft smile, his weathered hands holding out a book. “This one’s about knights and dragons. You’ll like it.”

Arthur Reynolds had been patient in those days, guiding Aiden through each page, explaining words, letting him ask question after question. No question was too silly, no curiosity too strange. The world felt safe when Aiden was with him—like the chaos and uncertainty of life couldn’t reach him as long as they were nestled between those pages.

There had been one summer in particular—Aiden was maybe ten—when he had come to stay with his grandfather after his parents' divorce. His mother had been overwhelmed, dealing with lawyers and the mess that followed, and so she had sent Aiden to live with Arthur for a while. Aiden had been angry and confused back then, unsure how to handle the feelings swirling inside him, but his grandfather had understood.

He remembered the first night he had arrived, feeling out of place in the quiet, book-filled house. He hadn’t wanted to talk, but Arthur never pushed. Instead, he had simply set a mug of hot chocolate in front of Aiden and handed him an old, dog-eared book—The Chronicles of Narnia.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Arthur had said gently, sitting down beside him. “But sometimes it helps to get lost in a story. When the real world feels too big.”

Aiden hadn’t said a word, just opened the book and started to read. And somehow, it had worked. In the weeks that followed, they had spent hours together, lost in stories, talking about nothing in particular but somehow everything important. Arthur had been the one constant in Aiden’s life back then, a steady presence when everything else seemed to be falling apart.

But as Aiden grew older, things began to change. High school, then college, then a job that consumed more and more of his time. The visits to his grandfather’s house became less frequent. The calls more sporadic. He hadn’t noticed it happening at first—the slow drift between them—but by the time he had, it felt too late.

He remembered the last time he had seen his grandfather, about a year ago. It had been awkward, strained in a way it had never been before. Aiden had been too busy, too distracted, caught up in his own world of work and stress. His grandfather had seemed distant too, but Aiden had chalked it up to old age, to the eccentricities that had always been there but felt more pronounced now.

“You’re always welcome here, you know,” Arthur had said as Aiden had left that day, his voice soft, almost pleading.

“I know, Grandpa. I’ll come by more often,” Aiden had promised, the words hollow even as he said them.

But he hadn’t gone back. Not once. Life had gotten in the way, as it always did. Work, responsibilities, the never-ending grind. He had always meant to visit, to call, but there had never seemed to be enough time. And now…

Now, it was too late.

Aiden blinked, his throat tightening as the weight of it all hit him. His grandfather had always been there for him, always understood him in a way no one else had. And what had Aiden done in return? Let him drift away, abandoning him to the quiet of his old house.

The detective’s words echoed in his mind. We think something may have happened to him.

Aiden’s jaw clenched as a wave of guilt washed over him. He should have been there. He should have known something was wrong. But he had been too wrapped up in his own life to notice, too blind to see that his grandfather had needed him.

And now, his grandfather was missing—presumed dead.

The finality of it hung in the air like a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating. He had lost him. The man who had shaped him, who had given him his love for books and stories, who had been his anchor when the world seemed too overwhelming… was gone.

And Aiden hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

He was alone.

And nothing made sense anymore.