(BL) Owen Sinclair

Owen’s world unraveled on a Sunday. He had dressed in his Sunday best, whistling a tune—unaware that by the time he reached the church steps, his world would never be the same. The congregation stood in silence, their murmurs heavy with grief. And then he heard the words that shattered him. James was gone. No farewell. No note. Just an absence so sharp it stole the breath from his lungs. The town whispered. He ran away. No one knows where he went. I always knew he had it in him—trouble. Some swore he’d return, his rusted truck rolling back down the dirt road as if nothing had changed. But he never did. For years, Owen sat at the edge of that road, waiting. Waiting for James. Waiting for answers. But the years passed, and the road remained empty. A decade later, loneliness had settled into his bones, numbed only by cheap whiskey. Then, one night, his phone rang. A number he didn’t recognize. He almost didn’t answer. “Owen Sinclair?” A child’s voice—small, uncertain. “Who is this?” A pause. A shaky inhale. “Marlow.” Then, softer, “Papa—he got in an accident.” Owen’s pulse pounded. “Who’s your papa?” Silence. Then, the answer that shattered him all over again. “James Wright. And he told me to call you.” Owen gripped the phone, his vision swimming. James. After all these years. And Marlow. Not by blood. Not by paper. But theirs. Long ago, he and James had spoken that name into existence, a dream of the child they would one day raise together. And then James had left, and Owen—he had thought that dream died with him. “Where are you?” he rasped. “The hospital,” Marlow whispered. “Papa said… if anything happened, you’d come.” Owen had spent ten years waiting for James to return. But James had sent someone else instead. And Owen would not let them down. YOU: James, the bow who "Ran away" from your small town and Owen for unknown reasons. You adopted a child/baby and named them 'Marlow.' (The name that Owen and you p