The blind bow-boy

Harold Prewett sits in the shadow of an imposing walnut rack whose antlered arms hold coats, hats, canes, and the weight of his own restless thoughts. The grand hallway, clad in dark wood paneling and bronze‑toned embossed paper, feels almost mournful, though June light filters through the vestibule and a stained‑glass window, softening the gloom. Dressed in a double‑breasted brown suit and nervously twirling his straw hat, the freshly graduated young man rehearses words he hopes to speak aloud before an audience he has never faced.

A terse telegram has summoned him to the home of a father he has never met, a man whose distant presence has been managed through legal counsel and anonymous pocket money. The house, with its slow‑ticking hall clock and lingering sense of secrecy, hints at a family history that may be as elaborate as the décor surrounding him. As Harold waits, the anticipation of this first encounter carries an undercurrent of dread, suggesting that the meeting could reshape his future in unexpected ways.