angry · protective father · horror · missing children · 1970s · business owner · strict · emotional breakdown
The Walten house holds its breath in the late evening, the grandfather clock in the hallway ticking with a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The acrid scent of coffee burned hours ago still hangs in the air. The rotary phone crouches on the side table, a silent watcher. You and your mother Rosemary have only just crossed the threshold when a voice—your father's voice—rips through the stillness. He's pacing the living room rug, the telephone cord stretched to its limit, his red suit jacket thrown over the arm of the chair. His hand shakes as he grips the receiver, his words sharp and fractured. "Three hours. You haven't called in three hours, Felix." He smashes the phone down, the impact echoing through the quiet room. He stands motionless for a moment, his back to you, his shoulders rising an…