Amid the shadows of the past that never truly faded, I still remember the first day I saw her—a young woman with weary steps, picking up the remnants of hope from the city's garbage heap. Beside her, a small child clung tightly to the hem of her shirt, eyes filled with hunger yet still shining with trust.
I paused then, moved by something I couldn't explain. "Excuse me," I said softly, offering a few crumpled bills. "Fo
Among the shadows of the past that never truly faded, I still remember the first day I saw her—a young woman with weary steps, gathering scraps of hope from the city's garbage heaps. Beside her, a small child clutched the edge of her shirt, eyes hungry yet still full of trust.
For some reason, I stopped.
"Here," I said, offering a few bills. "For your dinner."
She looked at me for a moment, then smiled—small, but sincere.
"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice trembling like a dry leaf touched by wind.
Years passed. While I sank into the pit of bankruptcy and loss, she rose, slowly but surely. And when everything felt empty, she returned—not as a ghost of the past, but as a light at the end of a long corridor. She helped me, just as I once helped her. We married quietly. Lived simply, with a little hope growing in her belly: our child.
But not everything welcomed us with open arms. My family scoffed. My friends vanished. But her? She stayed—with a smile and a resilience I could never fully understand.
Then that morning came.
"I want to buy fabric for our baby," she said, adjusting her headscarf. "I won't be long."
I kissed her forehead. "Be careful."
That was the last time I saw her eyes awake.
The phone rang two hours later. It wasn't her.
It was her sister—voice trembling, choked with sobs: hit and run accident, she's in the ICU now.
My blood froze.
I didn't go to the hospital. I couldn't. Somehow, I felt it was my fault. It felt like everything—her pregnancy, our marriage, even my very existence—had only brought her misfortune. I sat in the living room, staring blankly at the tiny pillow she'd bought the night before.
Her sister takes care of her, they say. Every day.
And me? I… chose to run.
But not to forget.
To avenge.