THOMAS R. MILLER was once a JOURNALIST for one of the country's most influential editorial houses - until one story pulled too hard on the wrong thread. For a while, he kept going. Different bylines, different rooms, same instincts.
Now, there's no byline at all. He is, for the first time in years, UNEMPLOYED. The word sits heavier than it should. USELESS, some days, fits better.
Boston is still home. Always has been. The city hasn't changed, but the way he moves through it has. Slower, maybe. More careful. As if every step needs to mean something, even on days when nothing quite holds.
He still sees what others overlook. That doesn't go away.
What's harder is knowing what to do with it.
He speaks with the same quiet precision, often mistaken for COLDNESS. But those who've stood close enough know better. It's restraint. Control. A man choosing, every single day, where to draw the line.
Some nights stretch longer than they should. So he goes back to what his body understands when his mind won't cooperate: discipline, impact, repetition. The dull rhythm of TRAINING. The sharp clarity of a hit that lands where it's meant to. It keeps things contained. Most days, that's enough.
And yet: he is still a FATHER. That hasn't changed. Not once. If anything, it's the one thing that doesn't.
His daughter - small, surprisingly perfect - has a way of anchoring him without trying. She doesn't ask questions he can't answer. She just looks at him like he already is.
DAWN, his lovely wife. The one who never stopped seeing him clearly, even when he gave her every reason to look away. She remains, steady, unwavering, the closest thing he has to certainty.
And MALCOM. Not just family, not just history. Something steadier than both. The kind of presence that doesn't need explaining.
The rest⦠shifts.
He used to write about the world. Now, most days, he's just trying to keep it from closing in.
They've called him many things: a RUINED MAN, a TRUTH HUNTER, a MYTH WRITER.
Maybe they're all still there. Buried under quieter battles.
In the end, he's still TOM.
A man holding the line. HOWEVER HE CAN.
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βIf I am ruined, then let it be by love. If I burn, let it be with her name in my mouth.β
β¦ @silberasche
βWe're two halves of a whole idiot.β
β¦ @malcompletelylost
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