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Miles heard only one truth beneath them all.
When he finally returned home, the house felt like a prize from a life he no longer recognized. Marble countertops. Glass walls. Wide hallways that suddenly felt too narrow. A view of trees changing with the seasons while he remained frozen.
He stopped returning calls. Stopped opening invitations. Stopped replying to messages from people who said they missed him but had no idea what to say anymore.
His money could summon specialists from Chicago, from New York, from anywhere impressive on paper.
None of it gave him back the feeling of grass beneath his feet.
A House That Became a Prison
By the second year, Miles had settled into a routine that looked like control but felt like surrender.
He moved himself from room to room with the practiced ease of someone afraid of breaking again. His days revolved around physical therapy sessions and quiet meals he barely touched. He watched sunlight crawl across the floor, as if mocking him for still being able to travel.
And bitterness took root—the kind that grows only in truly helpless places.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a constant pressure in his chest.
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