The ashes made me

Chapter 4

At Rufus’s signal, a swarm of guys stormed into the clinic—bats, pipes, and crowbars in hand.

Russell staggered forward and threw himself in front of the doorway, arms wide like a human barricade.

"You bastards again?" he barked in a trembling voice. "You’ve wrecked this place before! But not today—not while I’m breathing!"

“Move!” someone barked.

The red-haired thug didn’t wait. He drove his boot straight into Russell’s gut.

The old man hit the floor with a broken grunt, coughing, and clutching his ribs.

“Sit your dusty ass down,” the redhead muttered, and kicked Russell’s hand away when he tried to lift himself up. “We’ve crushed tougher than you.”

With that, he swung his steel pipe, taking out a glass cabinet. Shards exploded across the floor.

The rest of the crew fanned out, ripping drawers open, knocking over IV stands, tearing through medicine bins.

“Boss! Found something!” the redhead called, yanking a worn leather bag out from under a supply cart. The handle was cracked, the straps faded. “Looks expensive, probably full of meds or stashed cash.”

Rufus gave a crooked grin. “Pop it open.”

The redhead unbuckled the flap and dumped the contents onto the floor, but instead of pills or money, spilled a stack of weathered, yellowing letters, all neatly tied with string.

“What the hell is this?” Rufus frowned.

He gave the pile a kick, scattering the envelopes. He picked one up, then scoffed and passed it off. “I’m not reading that crap. You check if any of them mention cash.”

The redhead unfolded one and started reading aloud.

“Roland… please forgive your father. I was wrong. Not getting into college wasn’t the end. What matters most is that we’re still together…”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “What is this—soap opera crap?”

“Here’s another one,” the redhead said, tearing open a second envelope.

Roland, your mother’s not doing well. The tumour spread to her brain. They’re saying… maybe two days left. If you can hear this, come back. Even if you can’t forgive me, just come see her… She keeps asking for you.”

“Enough!” Rufus barked. “What a load of pathetic, sentimental bullshit! Burn it!”

“You got it.” The redhead flicked open a lighter and held it to the pile.

The flames caught fast, paper curling and blackening in seconds.

“No!” Russell howled, scrambling forward. “Stop! Those letters are mine! They’re for my son. Don’t burn them!”

The redhead didn’t blink. He drove a boot into Russell’s ribs, sending the old man sprawling, his side smacking hard against the tile.

“No...” Russell’s voice cracked. “Those were all I had left…”

By the time he crawled back over, it was too late. Ashes. Nothing but ashes.

He dropped to his knees, scooping the charred remains into his trembling hands. “Roland… I’m sorry, son. I never stopped writing to you. I never stopped hoping…”

Tears streamed down his face.

“I know you’re out there. I know you’re not dead. Come back… please… I’ll do whatever you want. Just come home…”

Each handful of ash came with another broken whisper. “Please…”

Then, someone shoved through the stunned crowd outside.

“Dad!”

Russell didn’t move. He thought he imagined it, just another ghost in his mind.

“Dad! It’s me, Roland!”

Roland stumbled forward, dropping to his knees so hard the slap of bone against tile echoed through the ruined clinic.

“I’m sorry!” he choked out. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

He grabbed his father’s right hand and pressed to his face, desperate to prove the moment was real.

“I should’ve come back. I should’ve been here…”

Russell stayed frozen. One hand trembling, the other still full of soot and ashes.

Slowly, he looked up.

Roland looked back, at the grey streaks in his father’s hair, the deep lines carved into his face, the hollowness in his eyes.

Tears blurred Roland’s vision. He reached out and grabbed his father’s free hand. It felt brittle, fragile.

“Dad… it’s really me. I’m here.”

Russell didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. He just stared.

Then, slowly, his lips began to tremble. Silent tears slid down his cheeks.

“Roland?” he whispered, voice cracking beneath the weight of disbelief.

“Dad…” Roland moved forward and wrapped him in a tight hug, his own body shaking.

In that moment, every grudge melted away. Every bitter memory dissolved.

The man in his arms wasn’t the father who once broke him—he was a broken man himself. Old. Beaten. Powerless.

“I was wrong,” Roland choked out. “I was so wrong.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds longer. Then…

CRASH.

A bottle shattered against the far wall.

“Touching,” the redhead sneered. “But the family reunion’s over, golden boy.”

He stepped forward, dragging his pipe across the tile with a sharp metallic screech.

His grin sharpened.

“Since you’re finally home… you can help pay off your daddy’s debt, or take the beating for him,” the redhead sneered, raising the pipe above his shoulders.

Roland’s cheek was still pressed to his father’s neck. He didn’t look up right away. He just breathed.

One slow, measured breath.

Then he let go and rose—quiet, but coiled. His fists twitched at his sides. His jaw clenched. The grief choking him seconds ago had shifted, simmering now into something darker.

Anger.

Pure. Focused. Dangerous.

He raised his eyes to the redhead. Not flinching. Just looking.

The guy hesitated, his pipe hovering mid-swing. “What? You gonna beg for mercy now?”

Roland stepped forward. One step.

“Big mistake,” the man muttered, tightening his grip.

He swung, and missed.

CRACK.

Roland’s fist collided with the man’s jaw—fast, clean, brutal. The guy spun mid-air and slammed into the pill cabinet. Glass exploded everywhere.

“What the hell…?!” another gang member rushed at him with a crowbar.

Roland caught his arm mid-swing, twisted it with unnatural precision, and drove his elbow into the man’s face. The man hit the floor like a sack of bricks.

A third guy came charging in from the side.

Roland didn’t flinch. He ducked low, grabbed the man's leg mid-lunge, and yanked him aside. The man skidded into the reception desk, knocking over what was left of it.

Now the rest of the gang hesitated.

Rufus took a step forward, brow furrowed. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Roland’s chest rose and fell with fury. His eyes locked on Rufus like a loaded gun.

“I’m the son of the man you just kicked half to death,” he said, voice low and vibrating with cold rage.

“The man you’ve been bleeding dry with torments, threats and illegal loans.”

He bent down and picked up the steel pipe, holding it loosely at his side.

“You’ve got no right to harass him. No license, no paperwork—hell, you don’t even have the brains to keep quiet about it. Touch him again, and I’ll report everything. Your rackets, your crew, every shady deal. One call, and I drag your whole operation into the daylight.”

Rufus sneered. “You think I’m scared of some punk with a pipe.”

“You should be,” Roland said, eyes cold. “Because this time, you picked the wrong damn family. I am giving you a chance to leave now, and if you push any further, I'll make you bleed twice as much.”

Rufus’s sneer faded, replaced by a seething rage, but underneath fear. For a second, silence hung in the air.

Then he roared, “What are you waiting for? Get that punk! Get him now!”