So, picture this: it's early morning in the city, and I'm sitting in David's cramped little office, now mine, the kind of place where only cases and books are found, amd a rare collection of poet by David. In reading all these, you would sure know why the guy never married. The occasional car horn blaring sounds sometimes reach this area. Very few neighbours there are. Outside, life goes on like it always does, but inside me, everything is about to flip.
I'm staring at myself in this old mirror that's been cracked for years, I don't know when but its been like that for as long as I remember, and that's long because David was the only person we visited with Joe. Nowonder David turned out to be my father, Joe always asked to look up to him and let him be my role model . Looking at my face in the mirror, I cannot help but miss David, there is that resemblance in the mirror but I think maybe that is why I'm missing him. I had never seen him in me but now occupying this whole house alone, I feel like I'm a younger version of him. I just hope all my parties I go to won't turn up a junior me maybe seventeen years later. Yep, a smile creeps onto me face and suddenly I feel good.
I've always thought I knew who I was. Adrian. Writer. Son of David the lawyer. A guy with a decent life if we're excluding being alone or lonely. That morning was not like any other, that is if I'm ignoring the morning I find the suicide letter, the ground shifted beneath me. I found something — a letter — that threw everything into question.
No return address. No name. Just a odd piece of paper, it looked new though. The penmanship wasn't great but the words? They cut clear through the haze:
"You are not who you think you are. The truth waits where shadows gather."
I read it again. And again. And again. At first, I laughed. Who sends letters like that these days? It felt like a plot twist straight out of one of my own novels. But then something inside me twisted. This wasn't fiction. This was real. And it was coming for me. I looked at it again and said to myself it was a typical statement from a David before I came, dude was a great poet. His works covered half the office. I still don't know why he never bothered even to publish them.
Dad, David, was always a mystery himself. Quiet, serious, always buried in books or scribbling in notebooks that smelled like old paper and sometimes He was The listener, they said. Collector of stories, but ask me I'd tell you every lawyer is a collector of stories they will never tell or more, should never tell. He did not abandon his cases though he would work like maybe two cases a month.
I sat down on the worn chair by the window and let the nature's noise flood in, the bird sounds. Outside, people hustled and here, me, a dude with a lot money, a rich brat thinking about a letter I just found. The letter was burning a hole in my hand. Trust me, I wasn't shook by the letter but a fact that this handwriting was nether mine3or David's.
I'm a writer. I make up stories. I spin worlds from thin air. But this? This was no story. This was my life unraveling, I guess.
I thought back to Dad again. What secrets did he keep locked away from me, again after he said he had told me everything?
The letter didn't say. It just pointed me toward "shadows." Shadows where the truth waits. But what kind of truth? And who wanted me to find it? Was this a warning? A threat? Or an invitation?
The day stretched on, but I couldn't stop thinking about the letter. I tried to focus on my work — the novel I'd been meaning to write, the ideas swirling in my head. But everything felt dull, overshadowed by the mystery gnawing at my mind.
I needed to know more. I needed to dig into Dad's things, his papers, his archive. Maybe he left clues — something to explain what this was all about.
So, I got up, grabbed the old key I found taped under his desk, and made my way to the small storage room where he kept his collection. The place smelled of dust and forgotten memories. I sat cross-legged on the floor and opened a chest I had never opened before. It was not that I hadn't wanted to but it had always been locked. I had always wanted to open it but...he went before I could ask.
In that one dusty box, I found a journal. His handwriting, tight and precise, filled the pages. I flipped through and found entries about "The Order" — something he never mentioned. The Order was described as a secret society, guardians of knowledge and power, but also shadows behind the world's biggest events. A club for the big boys.
My heart raced. Was Dad part of something bigger than I imagined? Had he been hiding this from me all along?
The journal mentioned "The Assembly" — people who ensured balance, but sometimes they crossed lines, became corrupted. The last page made me question a legacy, it just hinted at an apology like, hey sorry son but being a writer made sure I couldn't tell you everything.
I closed the book slowly. This wasn't just family history. This was a secret war, and I was standing right in the middle of it. Maybe they'll just pass me around, it hinted another about legacy upholding.
By then, the sun had dipped low, and my house was cast in long shadows. Shadows that felt like they were reaching for me. So that's it, the shadows were just the night being talked about. Wait, was someone watching me while I slept? Or they were coming tonight to warn me or to try and recruit me.
The cracked mirror caught my eye again. I touched the glass lightly and thought, Who am I related to really? Not the man I thought he was for sure.
The letter's words echoed again: "The truth waits where shadows gather."
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So yeah, that's how it all began. One letter. One cracked mirror. One man who thought he knew his story — only to realize he'd been reading the wrong book.
And if you ask me, that's just the beginning