Still terrified from the ordeal, we sat down in silence, taking deep, shaky breaths, trying to steady our nerves. The question that haunted us both was simple but terrifying: was our safety truly guaranteed here? I pulled her into my arms, and she clung to me like a lifeline. Thankfully, it seemed the intruders hadn't taken much—just an old vase or two. I immediately got the door rewired and added extra locks. We tried to sleep, but it was a restless, half-aware sleep, always alert, waiting for the next shock. I held her close, unwilling to let go, as if my presence alone could shield us both.
The next morning, life followed its usual routine, but the events of the last night lingered like a dark shadow. Ray's behavior felt... off. Or maybe it was me—maybe the creeping paranoia was twisting my perception. I wasn't sure who to trust anymore, and that uncertainty suffocated me. Despite the anxiety, I forced myself to go to work. When I returned, I brought home some of her favorite food, hoping to lift her spirits. She seemed genuinely delighted, but something in her demeanor was unusual—an uneasy guilt shadowed her eyes, or maybe it was just the lingering fear of that night.
We talked quietly, tried to find normalcy, but when night fell, she cuddled me tightly, as if trying to say sorry for something unspoken. Her grip was desperate, as if her conscience was pleading to confess a secret she couldn't yet voice.
The next morning, nearly a week after the old man's injury, we saw him—limping but alive, slowly walking into his home. He looked better than expected, which brought a strange disappointment. My wife, with a soft voice, asked if I could bring some fruits for him after work—a small gesture of apology for what had happened that day. I hesitated, reluctant to show kindness to someone so unsettling, but the gentle guilt in her eyes softened me. How could I refuse when she carried so much compassion, even when I struggled to understand it?
Back from work, I picked up some fresh fruits, just as she had asked. I didn't want to, but I did—maybe for her more than for him.
Once home and freshened up, we both headed to that miserable, foul-smelling house. The stench hit us even before we knocked—it was something so potent, so vile, I swear even a demon would faint at the door. Still, we stood there, holding our breaths, and knocked on the door.
He opened it. Same torn clothes, same unkempt look—but something was different. The usual creepy grin was gone. His face was twisted in a kind of bitter anger, like he'd been waiting to see us just to scowl.
Maybe it was for that push… if so, it was expected.
My wife noticed too and stepped forward to apologize immediately, her voice soft, guilt-ridden. I followed, offering a half-hearted apology. He said nothing at first—just stepped aside and pointed towards the filthy sofa like it was a throne. We sat down, careful not to breathe too deeply, as he groaned and lowered himself onto the chair opposite us.
But his walk… it wasn't the same as the morning. He limped heavily now, one hand clutching his back. Even sitting down seemed like agony for him. My wife leaned forward with concern, asking, "Are you okay?"
He shot back, "No, lady. I'm not okay. You pushed an old man who already had back problems. And now, it's worse than ever."
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
We sat through a long, melodramatic monologue—how much pain he was in, how the injury had worsened, how unfair life was. My wife kept whispering apologies, truly feeling sorry. But I was listening with narrowed eyes, seeing right through it. He wasn't just venting—he was baiting her, guilt-tripping her with every carefully chosen word.
Then came the clincher.
"Now tell me, who's going to clean the house, wash the dishes, do the laundry? I can't even move properly! The doctor told me I need at least a week's rest, and I have no one. No family. No help."
I knew where this was going. He was setting her up. And it worked.
My wife, with a shaky voice, said, "If you really need rest for a week… I can help. I'll come by to do your chores until you're well. It's the least I can do after what happened."
I turned to her, eyes wide, shaking my head slightly—"Don't say that"—but she wouldn't look at me. Her mind was made up. That was who she was. She couldn't sleep at night knowing she hadn't done what she felt was right, even if the fault wasn't hers to begin with.
The old man's face lit up—smiling through what looked like fake tears. "Thank you, dear. You're an angel. Truly a godsend."
His words made my stomach turn.
We left soon after. She tried to apologize again, saying she couldn't help herself. I stopped her.
"I get it," I said quietly. "You did what you felt was right. I won't question that. I know you better than anyone, and I respect your choice."
But then I added, "Still… just be careful around him. He's not as innocent as he makes himself out to be. If he tries anything weird—even the slightest—tell me. Promise me."
She nodded, but in her eyes, I saw something fragile—like she wanted to believe the world was still good.