Chapter 3: Father's Lies

The rain was still falling, drumming against the rusted tin roof of the archive room in a dull, monotonous beat. Lian stood in the shadows, his thumb pressing down on the silver coin he’d dug out from the depths of the ruins. The chill of the metal seeped into his knuckles and climbed his arm. Behind him, a corner of the yellowed parchment map had already been soaked through by the rainwater; the ink was bleeding, blurring into shapes that looked like a dying beetle. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a message from Nora, just two words: *They’re here.*

Lian didn’t reply right away. He stared at the coin. Its polished surface reflected the dim, yellow glow of the basement lights. Three days ago, he’d been in the gallery in the center of Shiquan Town, helping Ethan Vaughan sort through a batch of so-called “antiques.” When his fingers brushed the cold glass of the display cases, all he’d felt was the sour sting of a shady commercial deal. Now, he was standing in the abandoned Mining Bureau archive, holding evidence that could tear the entire Winters family’s reputation to shreds.

The roar of a car engine came from outside the door, accompanied by the rhythmic squeak of windshield wipers scraping against glass.

Lian put his phone away, a quick, efficient motion—like folding up an old newspaper. He pulled a neatly folded tissue from his pocket. It was one Nora had pressed into his hand earlier that day, scribbled with the coordinates of the clinic. Hete Grey, that doctor who smelled like nothing but tobacco, was finally going to pull the autopsy report that had been buried for over twenty years and see the light of day.

He shoved open the heavy iron door of the archive room. The damp, musty stench hit him in the face. Lian hurried down the long corridor. Puddles on the floor reflected the sickly green halo of the emergency lights. Behind him, the parchment map had completely softened in the rain; the fibers were starting to peel away, threatening to crumble into useless waste at any moment. He had to get what Hete was holding before that happened.

Rain in Shiquan Town always tasted of rust.

Lian didn’t head back to his old house. Instead, he went straight to the backyard of the town clinic, where Hete kept his back entrance. There was a standalone storage shed out there, perpetually stacked with expired medical supplies and old archives that nobody cared to look at anymore. Hete Grey was leaning against the doorframe, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. His eyes carried that usual mix of slyness and scrutiny.

“You look like you just got kicked by a dog, Lian,” Hete spoke. His voice was gravelly, like stones being ground on sandpaper.

Lian skipped the pleasantries and walked straight to the row of metal shelving in the back of the shed. He yanked open one of the drawers. Inside, several manila folders were arranged in neat rows. He grabbed the one on top. The label read: *1998 – Winters Mining – Special Assets.*

“Hete, you know what I’m looking for.” Lian’s voice was calm, but the knuckles of his hand gripping the folder had turned white.

“I know what you’re looking for, kid. And I know what you’re running from.” Hete exhaled a ring of smoke—even though his cigar was unlit, the motion was perfectly convincing. “Are you here to verify the authenticity of that map? Or to admit your father’s cowardice back then?”

Lian stopped walking. He stood with his back to Hete. The folder rustled faintly in his hand.

“I don’t take the blame for anyone’s cowardice. I only care about the facts.” Lian turned, his gaze sharp as a blade. “That autopsy report in your possession—who signed it?”

“A forensics doctor who’s long since died,” Hete shrugged. “But the backup file in the archives is still there. It took me three months to peel those encrypted digital records out of Ethan’s bastard’s gallery back-end database, bit by bit. Do you know what that means?”

“It means Ethan is laundering money.” Lian said.

“It means he’s been exploiting the identities of the victims,” Hete stepped closer, his shoe soles creaking on the wet floor. “Lian, your father Mason was the first responder to the mine disaster. He signed a liability waiver in exchange for the Winters family’s standing in town. That agreement is the key.”

A chill crawled up Lian’s spine. He remembered the clouded eyes of his father, Mason. He remembered the old man smashing plates and bowls in the kitchen, screaming. He had always thought it was stubbornness. It was fear.

“Take me to see Mason.” Lian said.

“He’s at home. But he doesn’t receive outsiders.” Hete pointed toward the corner of the shed, where an old microscope sat. “Look at this first. It’s a fiber sample I scraped off that torn piece of parchment map. Ethan’s people thought it was a land deed from the nineteenth century. Dead wrong.”

Lian picked up the sample and placed it under the microscope. Through the eyepiece, the fiber structure was coarse, flecked with obvious residues of modern synthetic dyes. He adjusted the light source, tilting the angle. A streak of eerie, fluorescent blue flashed in the fibers.

“This is an optical brightener,” Lian said quietly. “Used to fake an antique look. Ethan’s gallery is using this to manufacture fake artifacts. That map isn’t a draft. It’s a prop.”

Hete grinned, flashing a gold tooth. “A prop? Ha. Your father knew. When he signed that agreement, that ‘prop’ is what he was holding in his hand. He said it was the Town Source. He said as long as he held it, no one would dare lay a finger on the Winters family. He’s been lying to you for twenty years, Lian. And he’s been lying to himself.”

Lian felt a tightness in his throat, as if an invisible hand was choking him. He pulled out his phone and dialed Mason’s house.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up. In the background, there was the chaotic noise of a television and the heavy, labored breathing of Mason.

“Lian?” Mason’s voice was weak, as if he’d just woken up.

“Dad, I’m here,” Lian said. “Leave the door open.”

There was a pause on the line, then the sharp click of a key turning in the lock.

“Don’t come in.” Mason’s voice suddenly hardened, like a rusted nail. “Throw away that map in your hand. And that silver coin, too. Get rid of it.”

Lian stood in the downpour in front of Mason’s house, the rain soaking his lashes. He didn’t move. He just held the call button, his voice cold as ice. “Dad, you burned that map. I can smell it.”

Mason’s breathing became ragged. “It was an accident. The warehouse leaked. It just…”

“It didn’t burn all the way through,” Lian cut him off. “The fluorescence reaction in the fibers is still there. Hete sent me the sample. Ethan Vaughan has put a replica of that map up for display in his gallery. Tag price: two million dollars. He’s calling it a lost historical artifact of the Winters family. You’re helping him launder money, Dad. You’re helping him turn your past crimes into legal income.”

A violent cough came over the phone, followed by the dull thud of something hitting the floor.

“You don’t understand.” Mason’s voice shook. “That thing… it isn’t just money. It’s lives. The 1998 mine disaster wasn’t an accident. Someone rigged the collapse. I made a deal with Ethan. I admitted the Winters family’s mismanagement, in exchange for him not releasing that list. There are twenty-three names on that list. If I break the deal, the bereaved families of those twenty-three people will get the accusation letters, and the Winters family will be cast out of Shiquan Town. I… I just wanted to protect you.”

Lian gripped the phone so hard his joints ached. Rain ran down his face; he couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears.

“So you chose to lie?” Lian asked. “You chose to let Ethan play the savior of the town while we’re branded as thieves? You chose to let Nora stand at the shelter, watching those homeless people Ethan kicked out, forced to thank him for his ‘charity’?”

“It’s survival,” Mason shouted, his voice ragged with despair. “In this small town, the truth is more expensive than the lie. You can’t afford that price!”

“I can afford it,” Lian said.

He hung up and turned toward the old wooden house. Mason was standing behind the window, his face hidden by the curtains, just a blurry shadow. Lian didn’t knock. He circled around to the backyard and climbed over the low wooden fence.

Mason was sitting in front of the fireplace. The fire had long since died, leaving only a pile of ashes. The yellowed parchment map lay spread on his lap, its edges charred black, but the center lines were still clearly visible.

“You broke into my house,” Mason said without turning around, his voice low.

“I’m here to take it,” Lian said.

“Take it.” Mason waved a hand, his movement sluggish and weary. “Grab it and get the hell out of here. Don’t ever let me see your face again.”

Lian stepped forward to reach for the map. The moment his fingertips touched the parchment, he froze.

In the center of the map, there was a section that had been deliberately covered over. Lian gently lifted the flap. Beneath it, a line of small text appeared, written in faded ink: *October 14, 1998.*

Below the date, there was a crude symbol: an inverted pyramid, with a bone pressing down on it.

“What is this?” Lian asked.

Mason turned his head. The defiance in his eyes had drained away, replaced by deep fear. His face was etched with wrinkles, like crumpled paper.

“You think Ethan is just selling maps?” Mason’s voice was barely a whisper. “He built the gallery for cover. The real deal happens underground. Under that abandoned altar.”

Lian’s heart skipped a beat. An altar? Shiquan Town had no religious ruins.

“What altar are you talking about?”

“The center of the mine,” Mason pointed to the symbol on the map. “Before the 1998 collapse, the workers dug out a stone chamber deep in the mine shaft. Ethan said the Town Source was buried there. He told us to dig it up. In exchange, he would handle all the files of the dead—make them disappear, or turn them into ‘missing persons’—so no one would investigate the real cause of the disaster.”

Lian felt lightheaded. Missing persons. Several of the homeless people at Nora’s shelter came from mining families back then. They claimed their relatives went missing in the disaster, but there were no records in the archives. Ethan Vaughan, that elegant gallery owner, had been using money and lies to fill those voids.

“You signed the agreement,” Lian said. “You admitted that the deaths of those twenty-three people were an accident. But you never admitted the existence of the altar.”

Mason let out a bitter laugh, uglier than a cry. “I admitted it. But I didn’t admit one other thing. Under the altar, besides the ‘Town Source’ that Ethan wants, there’s something else. That is the true legacy of the Winters family.”

Lian pressed: “What legacy?”

Mason’s trembling hand reached out and pressed against the inverted pyramid symbol on the map. His fingers were gaunt, veins bulging.

“A list,” Mason said. “It says who survived that collapse. And what debts they owe.”

Lian’s back went cold. It wasn’t just a list. It was a web of debt. A vast net woven from lies, with Ethan Vaughan as the sole creditor.

“He’s not dead yet,” Mason said suddenly, his eyes clouded and manic. “Lian, you think Ethan is just a businessman? He’s still watching us. His eyes are in the gallery’s surveillance cameras. He’s still watching us.”

Lian snapped his head up, looking out the window. The rainy night was pitch black. Only the neon lights of the distant gallery flickered red and green, pulsing like a heart beating in the dark.

“Give me the map,” Lian said firmly.

Mason hesitated for a moment, then finally let go. The yellowed parchment map fell into Lian’s hands. The rough fibers scraped against his palm, like a silent scream.

“Take it,” Mason murmured. “And get out of Shiquan Town. Go there. Go somewhere with no cameras.”

Lian didn’t move. He rolled up the map and stuffed it into his inner pocket. The silver coin was right next to it, cold against his skin.

“Dad,” Lian said. “I’m not leaving. I’m going to find that list. I’m going to show Ethan that debts have to be paid.”

Mason let out a short, choked cough, as if he’d been struck by something. He bowed his head, his shoulders heaving violently—whether from the cold or the fear, it was impossible to say.

Outside, the rain intensified. Thunder rumbled faintly over Shiquan Town, like a sleeping beast rolling over in its dreams.

Lian turned and walked toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, he looked back at his father one last time. Mason was still sitting there, his back hunched, looking like a piece of wind-dried driftwood.

Lian pushed the door open. The rain instantly soaked his shoulders. He walked into the downpour, his steps unslowing. Behind him, the door slowly closed, sealing away the warmth and the lies inside. He walked into the darkness, toward the silver coin’s hidden secret, toward the truth buried underground that could overturn the history of the entire town.