My father appeared on the screen. Pale. Thin. But steady.
“You didn’t do it, Eli,” he said.
Linda and her son had framed me. Stolen money. Planted evidence. Used my access.
My father had been sick. Watched. Afraid.
So he collected everything. Quietly.
And left it for me.
I didn’t confront them. I went to a lawyer.
The truth unraveled fast.
Assets froze. Charges followed. My conviction collapsed.
The day I was officially cleared, I didn’t celebrate.
I mourned.
Later, I found my father’s real grave—hidden, private. A place Linda couldn’t control.
I sold the house. Rebuilt the business under a new name. Started a small fund for the wrongly convicted.
Because some people don’t just steal money.
They steal time.
And the only way to win isn’t revenge.
It’s building something honest from what they tried to bury.
I wasn’t forgotten.
And now, the truth isn’t underground.
It’s alive.
The end.
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