The day began with a rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against sleep.

My name is Henry Wilson, and this was the last normal day of my life.

I was in my final year at *Hillridge International High School*. That’s what they call “senior high” in most foreign countries. Americans just call it high school. Same stress, different uniforms.

I had ironed my school uniform the night before—by “ironed,” I mean I laid it under my mattress overnight and prayed gravity would do the job. It didn’t. But who cares? Nobody’s judging your wrinkles in Hillridge unless you’re popular.

At breakfast, my mom was running around packing for a girls’ trip with her sister. She was flying out that afternoon for a week of relaxation, hot springs, and too many Instagram selfies. She kissed me on the head and said, “Don’t stress your dad while I’m gone.”

If only she knew what was coming.

The school gate looked like a train station that had lost all sense of direction. People were talking, shouting, running, slipping. I slipped once and used it to do a fake moonwalk just to save my dignity. Nobody noticed. Typical.

When I entered Class 12-B, the room was already buzzing. Posters were up. Balloons. The school counselor had left a box of stale muffins on the table as a “Career Day treat.” It was chaos, but beautiful chaos.

Mr. Simmons, our homeroom teacher, stood in front of the board like he was waiting to reveal national results. He tapped the board and grinned.

“Today, you speak your future into existence. Career Day isn’t just for laughs. You’re writing your destiny.”

Destiny? Big word for a guy wearing socks with holes.

People started sharing their career goals. The usual suspects came first.

“I want to be a fashion designer!” shouted Becca.

“Pilot!” yelled Jamal.

“Professional gamer,” mumbled Lucas, earning a few side-eyes.

Then my turn came.

I stood up, took a breath, and said clearly, “I want to be a criminal investigator.”

Silence.

Then someone coughed. Then laughter.

“What is this, a Netflix audition?” someone joked.

“You serious?” another laughed. “You tryna chase serial killers?”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly that.”

Mr. Simmons raised an eyebrow. “Very... cinematic, Henry.”

“It’s not cinema. It’s what I want.”

He nodded. “Interesting. Good luck.”

I sat down, feeling the heat creep into my ears. But I didn’t care. It was my dream, and for once, I said it out loud.

---

Later that day, the clouds darkened. It was that perfect movie weather—gray skies, soft thunder, a promise of rain.

I arrived home to find my dad reading medical journals like they were love letters. He barely looked up.

“Good day, sir,” I said.

He nodded. “Welcome. School?”

“Fine. We had Career Day.”

He smiled faintly. “So you told them you're going to be a doctor?”

Here it comes.

“Actually, no,” I said.

He put the journal down.

“I said I want to be a criminal investigator.”

The pause was loud. Deafening.

“You said what?”

“I want to investigate crimes. Study criminology. Work on cold cases.”

His face hardened. “You want to waste your life chasing criminals instead of saving lives?”

“It’s not a waste. It’s what I want.”

“It’s foolish. This family doesn’t raise detectives. We raise doctors.”

“I’m not you,” I said.

That was a mistake.

“Get out,” he said.

I did.

---

That night, I stared at my ceiling. The rain had started to fall—soft and rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something.

I whispered, “I’m going to prove him wrong.”

But I never got the chance.

Two days later, I came home from school early. I had printed brochures for forensic science programs, hoping to change his mind with facts. I opened the door.

And froze.

The house was too quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

There was blood on the floor.

I followed the trail.

And found him.

My father.

Face down.

Slaughtered.

Gone.

No sign of forced entry. No weapon in sight. Just blood. Just death.

The police called it a robbery.

I called it murder.

And that day, my dream stopped being a dream.

It became a mission.

To find who did it.

To uncover the truth.

To discover...

**What happened to John.**

---

*[TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 2]*

The world didn’t pause.

It didn’t slow down or whisper condolences when my father died.

The next morning, the sun still rose. The birds still chirped. Neighbors still complained about power outages and bad Wi-Fi. But inside our house, silence screamed louder than anything else.

I woke up thinking it was a bad dream. That I’d imagined the blood, the body, the blank look in my father’s eyes. But reality doesn’t disappear just because you blink hard enough.

He was gone.

And all I had left were unanswered questions and a crime scene burned into my memory.

“Your Father Was a Good Man.”

The police had arrived late the night before. One of them—Detective Carter—was the first to speak to me properly.

Tall, stiff, and speaking like someone who watched too many detective shows, he said, “Your father was a good man, Henry. We’re going to do everything we can to find out what happened.”

I wanted to believe him.

But his eyes told me what his mouth wouldn’t: there were no leads. No witnesses. No clue where to start.

They called it a robbery gone wrong.

But nothing was stolen.

My father’s wallet? Still there. His watch? Still on his wrist. His laptop? Untouched.

That wasn’t a robbery.

That was a message.

And I was determined to read it.

Return to Normal (Kind Of)

Two days after the funeral, I was back at Hillridge High.

The counselor said I could take time off, but honestly, being at school was better than sitting in my room replaying that scene in my head. Besides, I needed distractions.

Or so I thought.

I stepped into the hallway, and people froze like I’d brought a ghost in with me. Some whispered. Others offered awkward pats on the back. A few even tried to act like nothing happened.

Then there was Marcus.

My best friend since grade 8. A walking machine of jokes, weird facts, and theories about aliens running the government.

He walked up to me with a carton of chocolate milk, handed it to me like a peace offering, and said, “So... I guess telling you your dad’s murder might be connected to a secret government experiment is off the table?”

I stared at him.

Then I laughed.

Laughed so hard I almost choked on the milk.

That’s why Marcus was my best friend. He didn’t treat me like glass. He treated me like Henry. The same sarcastic, nosey, dream-filled Henry Wilson who wanted to become a crime-solver.

I needed that.

My Mother’s Return

Mom flew back the morning after the funeral. She had to cut her trip short. When she walked into the house and saw the police tape still hanging like a curse across the hallway, she didn’t scream.

She cried silently.

And then she hugged me like she was trying to hold both of us together.

We didn’t talk much that night. She just sat beside me on the couch, holding my hand while the TV played a documentary we weren’t really watching.

But something changed after that.

The next morning, she looked at me and said, “You still want to be an investigator, don’t you?”

I nodded.

She smiled. It was tired but full of something I hadn’t seen in days—hope.

“Then let’s make it happen,” she said. “Your father had plans for you. But now it’s time for you to make your own.”

That’s when she told me she had been saving some money on the side, money that was supposed to be for a vacation house someday. She wanted to use it to help me get into a proper criminal justice program after school.

My heart felt like it had grown wings.

A New Beginning

That night, I applied to an early-entry criminology prep course. It was held on weekends by the local community college. Most of the students were older, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to fit in—I was there to learn.

The first class was on crime scene analysis.

The instructor, Professor Langston, was a retired detective with a voice like a gravel driveway and a beard that could store secrets.

“The difference between a mistake and a clue,” he said, pacing the room, “is that a good investigator never ignores either.”

I wrote it down.

Every. Single. Word.

The Case File

A week passed.

Then two.

And just as I started settling into my new routine—school, prep course, grief—something unexpected happened.

Detective Carter showed up at my house.

He handed my mom a sealed envelope and said, “The department has decided to open a special investigation unit to look into cold and unsolved cases.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “And?”

He turned to me. “They’re inviting fresh eyes to review them. University interns, rookie officers... and select students from criminal justice prep programs.”

My eyes widened.

“You want me to help?” I asked.

He nodded. “Not officially. But the chief believes young minds can see things we’ve missed.”

Then he handed me a file.

It was labeled: CASE #0942 – JOHN WILSON HOMICIDE.

My father’s case.

The same case they’d buried as a robbery.

Carter’s eyes were steady. “The chief says: ‘Whoever helps crack this gets fast-tracked into the force after school.’”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

Because my heart was already thudding with something stronger than grief.

Purpose.

To Be Continued...

Henry Wilson is no longer dreaming of being an investigator.

He’s becoming one.

And the first mystery he’ll solve is the one that shattered his life.

What Happened to John.