Her decision was a dagger in my chest. She may have had good intentions, but that old man didn't sit right with me—not for a second. Thankfully, starting tomorrow, I was working from home. That gave me some relief. At least I'd be around. If something went wrong, I could rush over. I told myself that over and over, like a broken prayer.
She, on the other hand, seemed lighter—like she was finally getting rid of the guilt that had lingered since that first encounter. I couldn't understand it. She wanted to help him. To make amends. But I could only see danger wrapped in his weak frame and tired voice.
We slept early that night. The morning came too soon. She woke up early, busied herself with the chores—washed, cooked, cleaned. Breakfast was already laid out on the table when I walked into the kitchen. She was hurrying. That made me pause.
"Are you going somewhere?" I asked, half-knowing the answer.
Then it hit me. Like a punch in my stomach.
Yesterday. The old man. The promise.
She got freshened up quickly, tied her hair, wore something plain, and said, "That house is way too dirty to even clean properly… beyond saving, honestly. But I can still wash the utensils and maybe sweep a little."
I nodded, hesitantly. "Be safe," I said, trying to smile.
I walked up to the room on the first floor—the one I had set up for work. From the window, I could see a partial view of the old man's house. Not the whole room, just a sliver. But enough. Enough to keep an eye out. Enough to ease the storm inside me.
Or so I thought.
Fifteen minutes into my work, I peeked through the window again. There she was, mopping the floor. She had her face turned slightly away, almost as if holding her breath from the stink. I watched for a moment longer... and then I saw him.
The old man.
His legs appeared in the corner of the view. He seemed to be saying something to her. I couldn't make out what. She straightened up, listened, and then... she was gone.
Gone from my line of sight.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.
I stared at the screen in front of me, my fingers frozen on the keyboard. My chest grew tight. My mind conjured images I didn't want to see. I wasn't sure what was happening, but I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit.
I jumped to my feet.
By the time I reached the door, I was already sweating. I ran. I didn't think. Just sprinted to the neighbor's gate and banged on it with the side of my fist.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The door creaked open slowly. The old man stood there, his face a mix of anger and confusion.
I peered over his shoulder, eyes searching.
She was inside. By the sink. Washing utensils.
She seemed startled. Her brows furrowed. "What... what are you doing?"
I opened my mouth, but the words tangled up in guilt. "H-hi," I muttered awkwardly.
The old man scowled. "What is wrong with you? You come banging on my door like a lunatic?"
She came closer. "What's going on? Why are you so worked up?"
I couldn't answer.
I looked at her face, then at the old man. I had no excuse—only a gut feeling, an irrational panic. I felt pathetic.
"I... I was just worried," I finally said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
The old man shook his head in disgust. "If you didn't want your wife helping me, you should've said no. Don't come here behaving like I've kidnapped her. She's the one who insisted on helping me. Thirty minutes of kindness, and you lose your mind?"
She looked at me, disappointed. Hurt. Like I had stabbed her trust with the same dagger I had felt the night before.
I apologized, profusely. To the old man. To her. But nothing could undo what had just happened.
We left together.
She stormed inside, her footsteps heavy with disappointment, not looking back even once. I stood frozen for a moment outside that house, shame pulsing through me like heat on my skin. She hadn't said much, but her eyes—those usually soft, kind eyes—held a sting I wasn't ready for. It hurt more than I thought it would.
I slowly walked back to my room, closed the door behind me, and sank into my chair. The laptop screen was still on, the cursor blinking as if mocking me. I couldn't focus on work anymore. My thoughts were louder than any notification or email.
Why did I do that? Why did I bang the door like some maniac? Was it that hard to trust her for just 30 minutes?
My heart had been in the right place, hadn't it? I was just worried… but the way she looked at me, it felt like I'd shattered something between us. That hurt. What was I trying to protect her from? An old man with a limp? Or my own irrational fears?
I sat back, ran both hands over my face, and sighed.
"This place," I mumbled. "This goddamn place."
I wasn't like this before. I used to be calm, secure, rational. But something about this neighborhood—its strangeness, the air of unease, the constant feeling of being watched or judged—it was changing me. Twisting me into someone I didn't even recognize.
The clock ticked on as my thoughts spiraled, until a soft knock on the door interrupted them. I turned. It was her. My wife. Holding a plate of food in her hands.
"You didn't come out," she said softly. Her voice wasn't angry. Just tired.
I didn't say a word. I was too full of guilt, of self-loathing.
She walked in slowly, placed the plate on the table beside me, then surprised me—she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me.
I didn't hesitate. I hugged her back tightly. There was comfort in that moment. Warmth. Regret.
"I'm sorry," I whispered against her shoulder.
She didn't say anything for a moment. Then quietly, but firmly, she said, "Don't do that again."
I nodded against her shoulder, a silent agreement. I couldn't meet her eyes, not yet.
She stepped back and sat beside me.
"I was mopping the floor," she began. "It really stinks in there, I was holding my breath. Then he asked me to help him with his medicines—he couldn't read the labels properly."
That's what it was. That's what I had seen from the window—the moment she disappeared from my view.
Of course. It made sense now.
"I read the dosages and placed them on the table for him. That's all," she said.
And just like that, something inside me unclenched.
So, the old man wasn't trying anything inappropriate. Maybe his creepy vibe was just… a face, a habit. Maybe he wasn't a threat. Just a bitter, broken man trying to get by.
I felt relieved. But even more than that, I felt ashamed of myself for ever doubting her.
She stood up after a while. "Eat your lunch before it gets cold."
I nodded again, still too ashamed to speak. But as she left the room, I caught a glimpse of something in her eyes—not just disappointment anymore, but a flicker of understanding. Like she saw how torn I was inside. Maybe, just maybe, she knew I didn't mean to hurt her.
But I had to admit to myself—I needed to get a grip. Before this place and my own mind pushed me off the edge.