Chapter 7 - Healing in the Countryside
With the trial set for six months out and both perpetrators locked away without bail, Rowan knew he needed to escape the suffocation of Nashville. The city held too many dark memories—the echoing boardrooms, the cold hospital corridors, and the empty, ruined house in East Nashville.
He purchased a historic, sprawling farm manor in Franklin, Tennessee—thirty miles south of the city. Nestled among rolling green hills, surrounded by white wooden fences, old oak trees, and a private pond, it was a world away from the nightmare they had lived through.
For the first few weeks, the shadows lingered.
Micah refused to sleep in his own room. Every night, Rowan would find the seven-year-old dragging his sleeping bag into the master bedroom, placing it right next to Rowan’s bed.
Elsie, though fully recovered physically, suffered from severe anxiety whenever a light switch was turned off. If a room went dark, she would panic, screaming for her brother and father.
Rowan didn't force them to be brave. He adapted.
He installed soft, glowing nightlights in every single hallway and corner of the new house. He converted his work schedule entirely to remote operations, stepping down as CEO of Mercer Global to take an executive chairman role that required only a few hours of virtual meetings a week. His full-time job became making breakfast, teaching Micah how to ride a horse, and painting watercolor landscapes with Elsie on the porch.
One afternoon in late autumn, child psychologist Dr. Clara Evans visited the farm for their weekly session. She sat on the porch rocking chair, watching Micah and Elsie chase a golden retriever puppy Rowan had adopted for them across the vast lawn.
"They're making remarkable progress, Rowan," Dr. Evans said, sipping herbal tea. "Six weeks ago, Micah wouldn't speak more than three words at a time. Today, he told me a ten-minute story about a dragonfly he found near the pond."
"He still checks the pantry every morning," Rowan said softly, looking out at his kids. "He goes into the kitchen at six AM, opens the door, and counts the boxes of food. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there for five minutes, looking at the full shelves, then closes the door."
Dr. Evans nodded sympathetically. "Trauma of that severity doesn't disappear overnight, Rowan. Starvation creates a primal fear of scarcity. But what you're doing—giving them predictability, absolute safety, and physical presence—is rewiring their sense of the world. They know you are their rock."
"I failed them once," Rowan said, his voice dropping. "I trusted a snake."
"You didn't fail them," Dr. Evans corrected firmly. "You listened when your son called. You tore through a city to save them. You fought for them. Children don't need perfect parents, Rowan. They need parents who show up when it matters most. And you showed up."
At that moment, Elsie came running up the wooden porch steps, her cheeks rosy from the cool autumn air. She held up a messy, brightly painted canvas.
"Look, Dad!" she beamed, holding up the painting.
It was a picture of a giant tree with deep green leaves. Beneath it were three figures holding hands—a big figure in the middle wearing a blue suit, and two tiny figures on either side.
"Who are they?" Rowan asked, smiling warmth into his eyes.
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"That's you, me, and Micah," Elsie said, pointing with a paint-stained finger. "Under the giant tree where the rain can't touch us."
Rowan pulled her into his lap, hugging her tightly, burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. "That’s right, sweetie. The rain can't touch us anymore."
