Chapter 1
A TALE OF REGRET AND FEAR
ROWAN
Which part of a book are you—the prologue, the climax, or the quiet chapters in between?
ChaosInPurple: I’m definitely the quiet chapters in between, the cozy ones where life isn’t exploding in dramatic plot twists but simmering in the background.
I’m where the characters laugh a little too loud, talk a little too much, and accidentally overshare because they feel safe enough to do so. I’m the part of the story that keeps believing in love even when it’s running fashionably late.
I believe that the best moments are worth being patient for, with a quiet faith that what’s coming will be even better than what I imagined.
“Where’s Dad?” My twin brother, Archer, asks the second we step inside my parents’ home, kicking off his boots like he still lives here.
Mom doesn’t look up from where she’s chopping something at the counter. “Fixing the RV.”
The kitchen smells like cinnamon, butter, and pinewood. It smells like home.
This place hasn’t changed. Tucked deep in the woods, it feels like my childhood home grew here rather than was built. Everyone in town calls it The Hermit’s Palace—half a joke, half a reverent nod to the man who lived here before my dad bought it.
Dad possibly thought it fit him perfectly, as he never believed he’d have a chance to share his life with anyone, but then Mom walked in and turned his life upside down.
As a kid, though, I never got the appeal. I used to beg to live in the city. I wanted the noise, the neon, the sound of life pouring out of apartment windows. This place felt too far removed from the world.
But that was before.
Before the incident. Before my voice disappeared, not by choice but out of necessity. The stillness that had once made my skin itch started to feel like shelter.
So, when I started Elixir Communications, I bought land farther north, up in the Cherrywood hills, and built a place of my own with wood and glass nestled in pine and stone. It’s modern but still private, somewhere I can appreciate the pull of wide skies and quiet mornings.
As soon as we settle onto the barstools, Mom slides two plates across the counter.
I glance down and blink. The croissant on my plate has been transformed into a tiny crab—banana slices for the eyes, blueberries for the pupils, strawberry claws that curl like little question marks.
I can’t help but smile. My mom no longer works as a professional food artist, but there’s never a bland meal in this house.
“This is too cute to eat,” I sign.
Mom grins. “It took me half an hour to decide whether to use strawberries or peaches. You’re not leaving that seat until that plate’s clean.”
She plops down between us, like she always does. Ever since we were kids, that chair—between me and my twin—has been hers. A middle space she fills with so much love and even more smiles.
Archer chews his piece of bread. “Are you guys planning a trip?”
Mom snags a piece of strawberry from my plate and pops it into her mouth. “Yeah. We’re heading out in a few weeks.”
I study her face. She’s not glowing the way she usually does when they’re packing up for a road trip. No lists flying, no sticky note reminders on her T-shirt, and no colorful Sharpies sticking out of her loose bun.
“Where are you going?”
“There’s a dog,” she says. “Special needs. The rescue center doesn’t have the resources to care for him, so your dad and I are going to pick him up. We’ll foster him here for a while. See if we can find the right family.”
That’s what my parents do. They take in the animals no one else wants. The broken, the overlooked. The ones who’ve known the worst of people because loving them is inconvenient.
I used to think it was just something they did to stay busy, something noble, something simple.
But as I grew older, I started seeing it for what it really is.
It’s their way of life. When life has kicked you down, you make it your mission to be someone else’s soft landing until kindness becomes instinct, and my parents are exceptionally good at the quiet acts of love.
However, when it comes to their story, it’s anything but quiet. It’s the kind people write movies about.
When Mom met Dad, she’d just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and had no insurance, no family, and no options. It could’ve been her ending. Instead, it became their beginning.
They barely knew each other. But Dad married her just so she could get on his insurance.
A fake marriage born out of desperation, not romance.
It was supposed to be temporary. A transaction with an expiration date.
Except they kept choosing each other, day after terrifying day.
They built a life out of borrowed time, and somewhere between a diagnosis and a fake marriage, they became the kind of couple people envy.
My mom didn’t know if she’d survive, let alone have kids after her surgeries. But then suddenly, she had this life spilling out in ways no one saw coming—twin boys who never should’ve existed but somehow did. It’s wild, but that’s just how they are.
“Do you guys need any help?”
Some of the dogs my parents have fostered were barely surviving when they arrived. They’ve been malnourished, frightened, covered in scars—some that had healed and some that never would.
Mom places her hand over mine. “No, hon. Dad and I will manage.”
She hesitates for a second, and my eyes flick to Archer. My brother’s brows are drawn tight, his jaw clenched. I know, like me, he’s bracing himself for some gruesome story.
Mom draws in a quiet breath and lets it go with a small smile.
“He hasn’t been… directly abused. But this baby has suffered more than most. He’s also blind, so your dad’s setting up a padded enclosure in the RV, hopefully to make it feel like a safe little cabin.
We want his ride home to be as peaceful as possible. ”
She lifts her hand and, with soft fingers, gently touches my cheek, and then she does the same to Archer, palming the side of his face with that same quiet gravity.
Fuck. That gesture always hits me square in the chest.
She only does this when she needs us to really listen to her words and to the meaning underneath. It’s always been like this, one hand on each of our faces, pulling us into a sacred moment. And suddenly we’re not grown men anymore. We’re her miracle babies.
Mom rarely steps into full-on “motherly” mode. Most days she feels more like a wild-hearted elder sister or a crazy friend. But when she looks at us like this, my throat tightens.
Her eyes move between us. “Life’s too fragile to live in fear and too short not to love. Just promise me this: whatever you do, whatever you choose, you’ll do it with your whole heart. Promise me that you’ll keep yourself open for love to find you.”
She exhales slowly. “It’ll show up when you least expect it, in a form you didn’t see coming. And if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it.”
God. That’s the thing about my mom, she doesn’t give speeches often, but when she does, they linger. I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.
But of course, Archer doesn’t hesitate.
He grins wide, breaking the tension. “Mom, I promise I’m keeping my heart and my arms open. So whenever a pretty lady decides she wants to love me or, you know, just do things with me, I’ll be all hers.”
He throws his free arm open like he’s inviting the entire female population of Cherrywood into a group hug.
Mom bursts into laughter, head tipping back, palm flying to her chest.
“Arch, that’s not what I meant! I’m talking about real love, not random hookups or late-night flirt-fests.”
He shrugs, pushing aside his now-empty plate and reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl before polishing it on his pristine shirt.
“Don’t worry, Mom. My heart’s all open and waiting for the real thing. But until then, I’m fine with a few counterfeit copies.”
Mom groans. “How are you your father’s son?”
“While you two argue about Archer’s tragic love life”—I sign, my lips twitching—“I’m going to go say hi to Dad.”
I step outside and pause on the porch, the morning air drawing a shiver, not just from the cold but from what cold reminds me of. It’s still early enough that the sky carries that soft, misty hue.
This porch has held so many memories and seen every version of me. The toddler who ran barefoot in the summer. The young boy who dreamed of anything but this quiet town. And the version that came home from the hospital quieter than he left, trailing silence like a second skin.
This is where my family learned how to speak with their hands—every finger movement, every glance, every breath becoming language. I close my eyes, just for a second, before following the sound of wind chimes coming from the back of the house.
The RV is parked under the open garage.
I knock once. When I don’t get an answer, I push the door open and lean in.
Dad is dressed in faded blue jeans and a denim shirt rolled to the elbows and is holding a measuring tape in one hand. His eyes catch mine and light up immediately. He sets the tape down on the counter and makes his way toward me.
“R-ro.” Dad’s voice catches the way it always does when he’s excited. “When d-did you get here?”
“A while ago. Just finished breakfast,” I sign.
“G-good.” He gestures toward the leather couch and I drop onto it, the cushions groaning under my weight. He opens the fridge built into the RV wall and pulls out two bottles of lemonade before holding one up in offering.
“Sure.”
He tosses it to me with that easy grin that makes him look ten years younger.
I glance at the measuring tape still lying on the counter. “Need help?”
He shakes his head. “N-no. I’ve got it. Just… t-trying a new idea.”
As a habit, my dad always sips on something between his words, even if it doesn’t actually help with his stutter. Right after my accident, I tried to mimic his ritual but could never bear the weight of my foreign, cracked voice.
“So w-what’s new?” he asks and my mind immediately goes back to the email on my laptop that I haven’t had the courage to open since last night.
“Have you ever wondered how life would’ve looked if you hadn’t met Mom?”
As soon as my hands finish moving, his eyes sparkle and his whole face lights up at the mention of Mom.
“I’ve g-got no clue. I can’t even r-remember what life looked like b-before she walked in. B-but I remember every s-second I’ve spent with her since. Th-those moments feel like they’re tattooed into my s-skin.”
There’s no posturing in his voice, no bravado. Just pure truth.
“Were you ever scared to admit how you felt about her?”
He meets my gaze and I almost flinch. I’m sure he can sense my question isn’t really just about them.
Dad takes another sip.
“I almost let f-fear win. I couldn’t b-believe that s-someone like her could p-possibly fall in love w-with someone like me. But f-fate”—he shrugs—“f-fate doesn’t give a sh-shit about logic. P-perfect soulmates sh-show up anyway.”
Soulmates.
That single word hits like a quiet punch.
“Living in f-fear is the w-worst kind of existence, R-ro,” Dad continues, not knowing, as always, his stuttering words have given me more than I asked for.
“I’ve b-been there, and tr-rust me—failure hurts, b-but not nearly as much as r-regret.
Th-the most beautiful th-things grow in the darkest shadows. ”
His words settle over me like dusk, slow and final. For the first time since receiving that email, which sits untouched in my inbox, my mind and heart are in sync. And for the first time, I feel ready to open the correspondence that has the potential to change my whole life.