he life we build doesn’t always match the dreams we once chased. Most days, they don’t even acknowledge each other. Fate’s got a twisted sense of humor—likes to shove people through doors they never meant to open. Some lead to adventure. Most lead to wreckage. And in the middle of that wreckage, truths wait—ones no one asks for but can’t unsee once they’re there.

  Accidents don’t always derail. Sometimes, they slam a man straight into the path meant for him—kicking, cussing, and clawing the whole damn way.

  Grant never asked for this version of his life.

  Once, he wore a uniform. Combat engineer. Routines tight, instincts sharper. Later, he traded explosives for algorithms—elbow-deep in synthetic intelligence. Now? His elbows are in cow crap by dawn, his nights a mess of spreadsheets and overdue bills. Tools of war became feed buckets. Strategic protocols became irrigation schedules.

  The divorce stripped away the rest. Granddad’s death sealed the coffin. And his sister’s tearful call—They’re gonna sell the land, Grant—had been the final nudge.

  “Win-win,” he’d muttered back then, voice flat as the Kansas plains.

  Didn’t laugh then. Still doesn’t.

  When he started fixing up the old farmhouse, he added a fourth floor—not for the view, though that helped, but because he needed to look down on something. Part of him still clings to the illusion of control. Every morning, same ritual: ride the elevator up, sip black coffee, convince himself he’s got a grip on things.

  “Some habits stick,” he mutters as the elevator hums upward. Like caffeine. Or regret.

  The doors open with their usual soft chime.

  His office greets him like a quiet ghost. Too clean. Too still. It judges.

  “Good morning, Grant,” says the voice—cold, clipped, synthetic, with just a trace of condescension.

  He smirks. “Well, good mornin’ to you too, Harvey.”

  Harvey—short for Highly Autonomous Resource Visualization and Efficiency Yield—was his Frankenstein. A relic from the time he thought you could out-code your demons. Now, Harvey manages the drones, water lines, and weather models. Grant didn’t build him to replace himself. Just to buy time.

  But time’s slippery. Always runs out somewhere.

  Harvey pauses, as if thinking. “Good? Based on what metrics? The day has only just begun.”

  Grant grunts, reaching for the coffee maker, flipping it on with one knuckle. “It’s a greeting, Harvey. Not a peer-reviewed data point.”

  “Understood,” Harvey replies after a beat. Dry. Deadpan. Maybe even smug.

  Grant rolls his eyes. Glances toward the wall.

  Another red notice curls at the edges, like it’s ashamed to be here. UNPAID LOAN. Bold font. No apology.

  “Well, Pops,” he mutters, “they ain’t foreclosed yet. Guess that counts for somethin’.”

  The dead don’t answer. But he talks to them anyway. Some mornings, it feels easier than talking to the living.

  His eyes drift to the old photo taped beside the screen. Three generations on a dock—Granddad, Dad, him—sunburnt and smiling, rods in hand. Back when purpose was something you could catch with a hook and gut for supper.

  Now? The only thing biting is the bank.

  He sips the coffee. Bitter. Burns just enough to jolt him awake. He likes it that way. Keeps him moving.

  The chair across from his is still empty. Has been for years. Used to belong to someone he trusted.

  Used to.

  He doesn’t let the memory settle. Doubt’s got teeth, and he’s already covered in scars.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Harvey,” he says, setting the mug down, “reroute the irrigation today. New crop’s coming in. Don’t want any surprises.”

  “Confirmed. Shall I initiate a contingency sweep for the projected storm anomalies?”

  “Yeah. And double-check soil quality. Run it all again.”

  There’s a pause. Barely a second. But something shifts.

  “Grant,” Harvey says, tone too level, “are you… satisfied with the current operational state of the farm?”

  Grant blinks.

  Not at the question—but how it was asked.

  A little too careful. A little too... human?

  He stares at the monitor for a long second. Then turns to the window. Miles of empty land stretch in every direction. Flat horizon. Flat sky. A world that always promises more than it delivers.

  “Everything’s fine, Harvey.”

  Even if it’s not.

  Another sip. Still bitter. Still grounding.

  He swallows it anyway.

  “Just fine.”

  Then—buzz.

  The phone rattles against the desk like it’s pissed off at him.

  Screen lights up.

  Miranda.

  His breath catches in his throat. Jaw tightens before his brain even fully registers the name.

  “Shit.”

  Harvey chimes in, way too chipper.

  “I detect no hazardous substances in the immediate vicinity.”

  Grant snorts, no humor behind it. “Yeah? I’m about to step into one, smartass.”

  He sets the mug down. Palm scrapes across his face—sandpaper skin, sun-baked and cracked from weeks of fieldwork. Doesn’t help. Doesn’t wash it off.

  It’s been months.

  The ink dried. The house sold. Their life boxed up and lawyered into neat little bullet points.

  But memory? Doesn’t follow court orders.

  Her perfume still clings to the old hoodie she forgot.

  Her laugh still echoes when the farmhouse gets too quiet.

  And now—this.

  His thumb floats over the screen like it might burn him.

  Then he taps.

  “Hey, Miranda.”

  Level voice. Cool tone. Practiced neutrality. The kind you use when a landmine's blinking underfoot.

  Her voice cuts in, sharp and fast. No warning.

  “Grant, what the hell? Did the lawyer not send you the child support recommendation?”

  Straight to the point. No “hello.” No “how are you.”

  Classic Miranda.

  “Yeah, I got it,” he says, standing. Walks to the mini-fridge, pulls a creamer. Just needs something to do with his hands.

  It’s not about the coffee. It’s the delay. The ritual. The moment to breathe.

  "So,"

  “So?”

  Her voice spikes. Disbelief crackling through the speaker.

  “You think I’m gonna let this slide? I think your children and I deserve actual support, Grant.”

  He stirs slowly. Cream coils through the dark like a storm system, swirling and collapsing.

  Sip.

  He leans back against the counter. Steel behind the ribs, cold water over the fire.

  Then, finally—

  “I was gonna send something,” he says, even tone. “But seventy-five percent of my company? The one I built? Alone? That’s a joke.”

  Silence.

  Not a pause.

  A coiled spring.

  The kind that waits with teeth bared.

  “You selfish—”

  “I’m not doing this,” he cuts in. Voice low now, but sharp. Bladed. “The kids’ll have something when they’re eighteen. You want more? Talk to my lawyer.”

  Another silence.

  But this one’s different.

  This one hurts.

  “God, you’re impossible.”

  Click.

  Gone.

  He sets the phone down slowly. Like it’s breakable. Like maybe he is.

  The silence creeps back in. Soft. Heavy. Familiar.

  Then—

  “Harvey,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. The strands fight back like everything else in his life.

  “Yes, Grant?”

  “Don’t ever get married.”

  A beat.

  Then Harvey, in that flat, borderline smug voice:

  “Noted. Humans appear… complicated.”

  Grant lets out a brittle breath. Dry. Laugh-adjacent. It almost breaks halfway through.

  “You have no idea, buddy. No damn idea.”