The Unconditional Love (1033 words)

Malavika walked slowly on the familiar pathway leading to the house where she had lived for over two decades. But the garden looked now uncared for, with bushes and weeds all around. It had not been swept clean of the fallen leaves for days together. It looked different when she lived here, with flower plants and dahlias in plenty and green shrubs all around. It had been more than ten years since she had visited this place.

She was the only child of her parents. She was more of a mama’s child, loving her mom, Geeta, most. Her dad was on tour for ten days a month, and the other days he was absorbed in his work. He quarrelled frequently with her mom, mostly on flimsy grounds, though she loved him very much. Abrasive and short-tempered as he was, Malavika could not recollect any occasion on which he heartily laughed.

Malavika remembers her mom telling her once, when she was in her teens, how he reacted at her birth because she was a girl, showing his irritability and disappointment in the presence of nurses.

She doesn’t remember a single occasion where he had lifted her in his arms, though as a child she frequently snuggled by his legs, hoping to be hoisted up. Her mom used to console her, saying that her dad, Purush, was not the demonstrative type but had affection deep inside his heart for her. Malavika never believed her on this one point.

Geeta had a sudden stroke when she was barely forty-five. Her dad was three years older than her. She didn’t live long after that. In a few months, she passed away. Malavika was just seventeen. Her dad put her in a hostel till she finished her education and found a job. She did not visit her dad frequently, except on long vacations or when the hostel was closed, and even then, she would be sent to her aunt’s house when he went on tour. There was no bond of affection between them.

She loved a colleague, and when she confided in Purush, he showed no interest or expressed his view. Malavika married him soon after she got a job. Though invited to her wedding, he did not attend, pleading pressing official work away in a faraway city.

It was a great shock to learn a year later from her aunt that her father had married someone without even telling her. It hurt her most that he did not consider it necessary even to inform her. She was also never invited to the home thereafter, nor did she go. There was practically no communication except when Malavika informed him about the birth of a baby girl. Purush neither visited her nor greeted her.

Years had passed by without any contact. It was a week ago that she heard from her old aunt that her dad had fallen sick and was also struggling financially. It appeared rather ironic that he had two young daughters from his second wife. Except for the house that was under mortgage for a loan, it seemed that he did not have much wealth or a good income. Malavika thought of her mom and wondered what she would have wished her to do in the circumstances.

With a heavy heart, she walked up the steps to his house and pressed the bell. She saw the curtain of the window being moved slightly, and a lady’s face appeared for a fraction of a second. She waited and again saw some movement behind the curtain. The faces of two cute girls appeared but did not disappear. They smiled at her, and Malavika returned it with a big smile.

The door opened slightly, and her father peeped out. When Purush saw her, he stepped out and stared at her silently for what seemed like a long moment. His face showed surprise, hesitation, and something she could not quite read.

Unable to bear the silence, she said, “Daddy, I am Malavika. It has been nearly ten years since we last met.”

“Yes… I know,” he said slowly. “I wasn’t expecting you. What brings you here after so long?” His voice was tired, not harsh, but guarded.

“Saroj aunty told me that you were not well and have been confined to bed for some time. I wanted to see you. You look weak… I hope you are feeling better. What is troubling you?” she asked, even as she noticed the lady and children watching from behind the curtain.

He did not invite her inside. After a pause, he said, “Life hasn’t been kind these days. But… It’s nothing for you to worry about. You have your own world now.” There was a trace of bitterness, but also weariness in his tone.

She hesitated, then said softly, “You are still my father.”

He looked away. “You left long ago, Malavika. I didn’t know if you still wanted to remember me.” His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to control it. “I thought… You have moved on.”

“I never stopped caring,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

He sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I have a family now, responsibilities… and not much left.” He paused. “I didn’t know how to bridge the distance between us.”

The silence between them became unbearable. Malavika wiped her tears, nodded, and turned back slowly.

As she walked away, she heard the door close, not slammed, but shut with quiet finality.

She stopped by her car, opened her purse, took out an envelope she had brought, and dropped it into the post box fixed by the side of the door. Then she walked back and drove away without looking back.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. The man, his wife, and the two girls stepped out. He noticed an envelope protruding from the box. He took it out and opened it with trembling hands.

Inside was an account-payee cheque drawn in his name, for rupees ten lakhs.

He stood frozen, his eyes moist, realising for the first time the depth of Malavika’s love, silent and enduring, for him, which he had failed to recognise.

He decided to get Malavika's phone number and address from Saroj aunt.

The Unpolished Gem (1050 words)

Selvi lived in a dingy Housing Board flat meant for low-income families. When her husband was alive, he had managed to secure it on rent. Over the years, the building had deteriorated badly due to poor maintenance and the indifference of its occupants. It was a dreary place where poverty showed in every cracked wall and dark corridor.

She lived there with her three daughters and her youngest, a six-year-old son. The eldest was fourteen. All four children attended the corporation school a little away. Life had become one of constant struggle after her husband died suddenly in an accident.

Selvi worked all day in a large white bungalow nearby, helping with every household chore, including cooking. It was exhausting work, but she preferred this house because it was close to her home and paid well, what she would otherwise have earned working in two or three houses. The only drawback was the landlady, Kokila, a perfectionist and strict taskmaster who tolerated nothing careless or incomplete.

Selvi laboured hard to please her, but Kokila was never easily satisfied. While Selvi swept or mopped, Kokila stood beside her, ensuring every piece of furniture was moved and every corner cleaned. At the end of the day, she inspected the washed clothes for any stains and scolded Selvi for the smallest oversight. She never spoke kindly, always remaining formal and distant. Though she knew Selvi’s poor circumstances, apart from giving new clothes to the family during Deepavali and Pongal, she never offered anything extra. She appeared cold and heartless, devoid of compassion.

One day, Kokila entered the kitchen and found Selvi lying unconscious on the floor, the milk boiling over on the stove. Furious at first, she nudged Selvi sharply. When Selvi did not respond, Kokila grew alarmed and sprinkled water on her face. Only then did she learn that Selvi had not eaten for two days, and whatever leftovers she was allowed to take home were barely enough for her children.

Yet Kokila showed no sign of sympathy. She said brusquely, “Be alert. I don’t want a fire accident due to your carelessness. There’s no point in giving everything to your children. Since you are working, you must also eat. Anyway, take some rice and sambar and eat,” and left the room.

Selvi was deeply hurt by her harsh tone and did not feel like eating in that house. But she forced herself to, to avoid the dizziness that had caused her to faint.

The next day, when Selvi returned home, she found a large bag placed at her doorstep. She called her daughter and asked who had brought it. The girl said that an old man had left it there, saying it was meant for their house. Curious, Selvi opened the bag. It contained enough rice, pulses, oil, and other essentials to last the family for a week. She was stunned by this unexpected blessing at a time when there was not a grain in her kitchen.

 She hesitated, wondering whether to wait and discover who had left it or feed her hungry children. Her motherly instincts prevailed. She cooked a hearty meal, and her children ate with delight.

Meanwhile, Kokila continued to extract every ounce of work from Selvi, making her resent her deeply. Selvi never asked for money or help; she only longed for a kind word or a little appreciation. Several times, she thought of quitting the job, but the fear of worse alternatives held her back.

When the same bag of provisions appeared at her door the following week, Selvi lost her temper. She called her eldest daughter and shouted, “I don’t want to hear any lies. Tell me who brings this bag every week! Do you have a boyfriend? Do you talk to any man in this block?”

The girl burst into tears. “Amma, I swear I don’t know who brought this bag. I have no boyfriend, and I don’t talk to anyone. How could you suspect me like this?”

Selvi was not convinced. “Who would leave provisions worth hundreds of rupees without expecting something in return? You don’t want to see your siblings starving, and you’ve been tempted into wrong ways to get this!” she accused unreasonably.

The girl cried louder. Ashamed but determined to uncover the truth, Selvi decided to wait and see for herself. The next week, she hid behind the door at dusk. Soon, an old man arrived, left the bag, and turned to go. Selvi rushed out and stopped him.

“Why do you leave this bag here every week? Who asked you to do this?” she demanded.

He replied, “Madam, I don’t know the details. I work at Shanmugam Stores. The owner instructed me to leave this bag here every week at this time.”

Still unsatisfied, Selvi asked him to take the bag back if he could not tell her who had arranged it. He hesitated, then said softly, “I am not supposed to reveal this, but from what I heard, the lady of the white bungalow instructed the shop owner to send these provisions regularly and bill her.”

Selvi stood speechless. The woman she had believed to be heartless was, in fact, her silent benefactor.

The next day, Selvi entered the bungalow, eager to thank her. But Kokila stood at the door, anger flashing in her eyes.

“Do you know what time it is?” she snapped. “You are supposed to be here by 7 a.m. It is already 7:10. I cannot tolerate such irresponsible behaviour. I will not listen to your excuses,” she said.

Selvi felt no anger. Instead, she fell at Kokila’s feet and pleaded, wiping her eyes with her sari, “Excuse me, Amma. This will never happen again.” 

 “What is all this drama?” Kokila asked, her voice softening slightly.

Selvi did not reply. She only smiled to herself, knowing now that beneath that rough exterior lay a golden heart.

To her great surprise, Kokila lifted her and hugged her tightly. “Do not worry,” she said gently, “You are part of my family. I will take care of your children’s education. Please find a good school nearby. The present one is too far. I will have the outhouse readied for you soon. You will save on rent.”

Tears filled Selvi’s eyes, not from sorrow this time, but from gratitude.

 

The secret behind the lost pendrive (733 words)

Raghuvir was frantically searching for the pen drive that contained important data. He had kept it on the table, he was sure. His wife, Isha, was arranging things as the cleaners were expected that day. Could it be that she had placed it safely somewhere? She had gone to the office early as there was an important meeting. He rummaged through the drawers of the table but could not locate it. What if it had fallen in the dustbin or thrown by mistake, he wondered.

He took the dustbin from under the table and emptied the contents on the floor. The pen drive was not there. As he was putting back the contents into the bin, he found a crumpled and faded blue-coloured paper. It looked very old. Impelled by curiosity, he opened it. It was a letter torn twice into four parts and thrown in the bin after crumpling it. It was not his, he was certain. He sat on the floor and arranged it in order after flattening the pieces. It was a letter dated eight years back addressed to Isha from one Manish. Raghuvir had not heard Isha telling him of any Manish. There was no relative of hers with such a name. Wanting to know more, he pressed the papers with an iron box to remove the creases. He could now read easily.

Dearest Isha,

This is perhaps my last letter to you, for I would not like to intrude anymore in your happy married life. I would be gone to an unknown place, carrying with me the fond memories of you and the happy times we had together. It was my entire fault, and on an impulse and in utter foolishness, I had misappropriated the bank's money temporarily to buy a costly gift for you, but was caught before I could replace it as I had planned. Although I had paid the bank the money, I lost my job and had to spend one year in jail. It was my blind love for you and the eagerness to get you the diamond pendant you looked at longingly when we were in a mall that made me commit the unpardonable mistake. It was not the loss of a job or the incarceration or my reputation in tatters that affected me, but the loss of you was unbearable. I could not hold you responsible in the circumstances for your decision to move away and marry one whom your parents had chosen. I also knew the reason for your urgency.

Forgive me. I want you to live happily and erase my memories, though it would be difficult for you when you see your daughter. I came to know you gave birth to a girl soon after marriage. Tear this letter. I have torn all yours but unable to erase you from my heart.

Love

Manish

Raghuvir could not believe what he read. He was shaken beyond words at the unexpected revelation of his wife’s past. Yes, his daughter Monica was a premature baby, and at least that was what he was told. Come to think of it, Monica has not taken after her dusky mom or her dad, as the girl was very fair. She had a sharp, aquiline nose, unlike his bulbous, flat nose. Be that as it may, Raghuvir wished she were at least open. But, on second thought, he realised who would reveal when unsure of how the spouse would react? But her love for him was unstinted, real and beyond question. Why rake up buried things and make life miserable for both him and his adorable, loving daughter, Monica? What good it would bring, he thought as he lay in the bed for a long time.

The phone rang. It was Isha informing that she is driving back home. He was clear in his mind now. He hurriedly took the letter and burnt it along with the secret it contained. He emptied the contents of the dustbin into the container on the road. He found a new comfort in his action and luckily saw his pen drive protruding from the pillow on the bed. He went to the kitchen, whistling a tune to make coffee for her.

When Isha entered the house a few minutes later, the aroma of fresh coffee greeted her, and Raghuvir did too, just as he always did, with warmth and without questions.

A Lesson learnt over a Cup of Tea (682 words)

 

Sita made a surprise visit to her parents’ house in the same city one Sunday morning. 

Her dad, a strong-willed man, had peculiar notions about men’s superiority over women. He always ordered her mom, even when requests would have been more appropriate. Her mom willingly subjected herself to his taunts and abuse. Her dad and Sita were having tea together. 

Sita asked, “Dad, I have a question. “

He said, “Shoot your question,” sipping his tea.

“Do you believe men are entitled to treat their wives as chattel? Can they order them about as if they are paid slaves? Can they assume that wives have no say in all household matters and only husbands have the right to decide?” asked Sita.

Tell me, Sita, what is on the back of your mind? What prompted you to ask this question?” he asked.

“Nothing in particular. It is just to know your views, she replied.

He slowly said in a measured tone, “I strongly believe that women will have to be kept under a tight leash. Give them an inch, and they will take a mile. As an earning member who keeps the hearth burning, the husband has the right to see that things are done as per his wishes. He may have to be occasionally strict if necessary to maintain discipline and compliance with his wishes. Men give them food, clothing, shelter and children for the work they do. What else do they need?”

Aghast though, Sita was not surprised at his boorish attitude, knowing well how he had been treating her mom all these years. She hated him for a while for his rude response and brashness, but kept quiet, unaware of how to react.

He asked her, “I am not convinced that you asked this question casually. Tell me what impelled you to ask?” Sita could not control her tears when she thought of her poor mom and started sobbing.

“Sita, pray tell me without crying what is troubling you.”

“You married me to Hari, telling me he came from a cultured family of decent people. Life has been hell for me from day one of marriage. Not a day passed without his insulting and beating me often in the presence of his parents and siblings. Even when I am sick, no one comes to help me in the kitchen. No one asks me whether I am alright. He neither trusts me nor gives me money even for buying vegetables. I am not allowed to express any opinion, even on matters concerning my children. I do not want to live there anymore. I am willing to work and take care of my kids. I do not want to stay in a place where I am not respected or treated equally with dignity,” a sobbing Sita gave vent to her suffering.

He lost his arrogant demeanour, and his eyes became misty.” Why didn’t you tell me all these years? I would have taught that brat a lesson or two.”

“How could I when you are yourself no better than Hari? What kind of support could I expect to get from you? Sita asked

Her dad broke down. “I have been a fool all along. I will change myself from today. This is a promise, Sita. Let us go now to Hari’s place and talk to him before deciding our next step. I cannot forgive a man for treating his wife so miserably.”

The doorbell rang just then. Dad rushed to open. There were the beaming Hari and the children in all smiles, with a complaint, “Nana, Mom refused to come with us to Disneyland, telling us she had to be with you. She will do only what she wishes. She missed a lot of fun today.” With a foolish grin, my dad looked askance at Sita.

“Extremely sorry, my dad, for making up this story. Hari is a doting husband and, like the genii in Aladdin’s lamp, is ever ready to carry out my smallest wishes,” proudly said Sita, even as she added, "Do remember you have made a promise."

God's Little Ways (330 words)

Amrita remembered her mom telling her when she was a child that God punishes in His own little ways whenever one sins. She never failed to stress that one may not be able easily to relate the punishment to the ethical lapse, but if closely observed, one can see that it invariably follows. 

One day, she came home from school with a long face. She had broken her slate. 

Her mom asked, “What did you do?"

She kept silent for a while and, when prodded, admitted to taking Anupam's eraser without his knowledge.

"Do return it tomorrow and say sorry. I will get an eraser and a new slate,” Mom said

Another incident that occurred in her teens came to her mind. As she was returning home, she fell and had deep scratches on her legs and wrist. When she came crying, mom, as usual, asked her what she did that day. She could not lie when she saw her mom's kindly face and confessed that she copied in the test.

"Remember always that God is watching and would punish if we do wrong. Sometimes it is immediate and, on some occasions, delayed. But every deed, good or bad, returns to its doer, in time.”

Her mom passed away years back, but she never forgot the tiny incidents and her mom’s message.

When the big and expensive chandelier fell suddenly on the ground and broke into hundreds of pieces in the morning, she knew why it happened, even as her mom’s stern face flashed before her mind's eye. She was struck with remorse.

She should not have brought her ex-boyfriend and colleague home for tea last evening when her husband was away on tour.

When her husband came around noon, he commiserated with her on the loss of the chandelier and said,” We will replace it with a better and more sparkling one. Do not worry.”

“No, please. No more chandelier. It could hurt us,” she said

He looked at her in bewilderment, given her aesthetic sense and propensity for flashy decorations.

This is the last story for 2025.Thanks for your continued support.

Happy New Year to you all.

 

A Christmas Boon (674 words)

                                   (If  you like this short story and are inclined, please leave your comment.)

 Ambrose lay reclined on the sofa, with no desire to rise and switch on the lights, even as darkness crept into the room. The television had been turned off after only a few minutes, the novel he had been reading lay forgotten at his side, and the music system stood silent. Ever since his young wife, Sharon, had passed away two years ago, he had lost interest in everything.

Through the window, he could see the bright lights glowing in neighbouring houses, the beautifully decorated Christmas trees, and shining stars hanging outside. Christmas was just a day away. He remembered how Sharon and he would spend hours decorating their tree—carefully placing ribbons, shiny ornaments, and neatly wrapped gifts. The tree still lay stored away in one of the rear rooms, but he had no heart to bring it out.

To escape the stuffiness of the house and the dull headache he was having, Ambrose wandered across the road to the nearby market. As he passed a shop filled with Christmas trees, twinkling lights, ornaments, shiny balls, and a variety of decorations, he noticed a little boy of about eight or nine standing outside, peering intently through the glass. The child moved from one end of the display to the other without taking his eyes off the treasures inside.

“Hey, what are you looking at so intently?” Ambrose asked.

The boy turned eagerly. “I’m looking at all the things inside. Aren’t they beautiful, mister?”

“Yes, they are. Don’t you have a Christmas tree at home? What’s your name?” Ambrose asked kindly.

“No, we don’t have one. We became poor after my dad passed away two years ago. Mom says we can’t afford it. My name is Xavier,” the boy replied softly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ambrose said, moved. “I have a Christmas tree with all the decorations, but I won’t be using it. I could give it to you.”

Just then, a voice called out from behind. “Xavier, how long are you going to stand there? Come along, we’re heading home.” It was the boy’s mother. She looked about thirty and was strikingly attractive. Ambrose found himself momentarily bewitched.

“Mom, this uncle says he has a Christmas tree all decorated and wants to give it to me. Can I take it?” Xavier pleaded.

 She turned toward Ambrose, whose eyes were already fixed on her. Ambrose, at thirty-four, was a handsome man, and her heart skipped a beat. Still, she said firmly, “Xavier, we shouldn’t accept gifts from strangers. Come here, let’s go.”

Ambrose stepped forward. “We’re strangers only until we become acquainted and turn into friends. I truly won’t be using the tree. Please let Xavier have it. If you agree, I can bring it over in my car. I live just across the road.”

She hesitated, uncertain.

With gentle insistence, Ambrose said, “Xavier, tell me where you live. I’ll bring it over within an hour.”

Soon, the tree stood proudly in their small but neatly kept house, adorned with ornaments and a few carefully tied gifts. Xavier’s eyes sparkled with joy.

Turning to the lady, Ambrose said, “My name is Ambrose. I lost my wife two years ago, that's why I haven’t felt like celebrating. Thanks to Xavier, I’m beginning to feel the Christmas spirit again. You haven’t introduced yourself yet.”

“I’m Sharon,” she replied softly. “I lost my husband in an accident two years ago. I work on a small job to manage. I’m glad to meet such a kind-hearted man. We seem to be sailing in the same boat. I, too, hadn’t felt like celebrating, though Xavier kept insisting. Thanks to you, I can finally feel the Christmas cheer and hope for happier days ahead.”

Ambrose smiled in amazement. “What a coincidence. My wife’s name was also Sharon. You mentioned happier days ahead. Yes, we can make them happy. Please accept me as a friend. I’m no longer a stranger.”

She lowered her eyes shyly, unable to meet his gaze.

On that quiet Christmas Eve, a new love was born. 

  

The Mysterious Killer (1135 words)

 

Siddarth (briefly Siddhu) had nothing with him when he was thrown out of his room except for odd personal things in a worn-out cloth bag. He had not paid the room rent for six months. It was not that he wanted to deceive the landlord, but he had no income when his company folded up one day without notice, rendering him jobless. His immediate concern was to find a place for the night. He had, luckily, a few hundred hidden in his undergarments that would see him through for a few days.

He walked the whole day on the streets of the small town looking for a place to stay. In a few places, they had a room to let out but insisted on a downright advance of a few thousand rupees. As he was losing hope with only the town bus stand as the possible alternative, he saw a To Let board hanging on the gate of an old house. It was virtually on the thinly populated outskirts of the town. He opened the creaking gate to find the front lawn in total neglect, with weeds all over and dead leaves from the overhead trees strewn all over. There was little evidence of habitation. Nevertheless, he went in and pressed the bell. When there was no response, he knocked on the door hard. He peeped through a window to find the interior also unclean, with no evidence of inmates. When he was about to give up and turn back, he heard the sound of the door being opened.

An old man in a long white robe that almost covered his legs appeared. He had a pale face, a long white beard and an age that could not be guessed. His eyes, though sunk deep, seemed sharp of seeing through one’s body, sent shivers to Siddhu. He was not invited inside.

” What do you want, young man’ the old man asked in a squeaky tone that was almost a whisper.
“I saw the to let sign. I need a room immediately,” Siddhu said
“Have a look at the outhouse, but tell me beforehand whether you are single. The place is not available for those who bring girls for the night”

“That is ok. I am single and have no girlfriend, though I don’t see any reason for this condition. Can we see the place?” Siddhu asked

The old man gave him the key to the outhouse. “You go and have a look. It may be dark because of trees hiding the sunlight. You can switch on the light,” He added with a laugh that was scary from his toothless mouth “Remember no girls.”

The outhouse, consisting of a big room, a kitchenette and a toilet, looked as dirty as the main house. It was dark, and he switched on the only light that was not bright. He found a broom in the corner and cleaned the place. The cot had a mattress but no sheets. It didn’t matter to him. He decided to take it, although he was not comfortable with the spooky ambience. Maybe in daytime things may appear different, he thought to himself.

When he went to the main house, the old man was not seen. The door was closed. All lights were switched off. He knocked several times, but there was no response. He was tired from the walk all day long, and his limbs begged him for rest. He went back and hit the bed. He was dead tired and fell asleep soon

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, slow and hollow, twelve times.

Siddhu woke with a violent jolt. His throat was dry, his heart hammering as though it had been running before his body had stirred. The darkness in the room felt thicker than before, almost tangible. He lay still, listening. Then he heard it.

A soft rustle from the kitchenette.

He strained his ears. The door was locked. He clearly remembered bolting it. It must be rats, he told himself, though the sound was too measured, too deliberate. Slowly, he sat up.

That was when something brushed past him, cold and weightless. And then—the unmistakable fragrance of fresh jasmine flowers, heavy and suffocating. Panic surged through him. He leapt from the cot and fumbled for the switch. His fingers trembled as he flicked it on. Nothing happened. He tried again. And again. The bulb remained dead, swallowed by darkness.

Suddenly, icy fingers closed around his neck.

Siddhu tried to scream, but no sound escaped his mouth. His lungs burned as the grip tightened. He could feel breath against his ear, soft, almost tender—and the jasmine scent grew overpowering. In his fading consciousness, a whisper drifted through the silence, not cruel but heartbreakingly sad.

“No more lies…” The world went black.

Morning broke with an uneasy stillness.

A small crowd had gathered outside the old house, men and women standing well away from the rusted gate, murmuring among themselves. Two policemen stood near the outhouse. An ambulance was parked close by, its doors open.

A man with a squint leaned toward the listeners and said in a low voice, “This is the second unnatural death in this house. The first one happened six months ago.”

Questions flew at him.

“Was it murder?”

“Who owns the place?”

“Does anyone even live here?”

The man shook his head slowly. “An old man lived here once, with his daughter. The outhouse was rented to a young man she fell in love with. He promised her marriage. Swore he would never betray her.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“When she returned early from a trip, she found him with another woman. She took her life within two weeks. She was pregnant. A month later, the young man was found dead in the same outhouse. No injuries. No explanation.”

A shiver passed through the listeners.

“And the old man?” someone asked.

“No one knows,” the squint-eyed man replied. “After his daughter’s death, he was said to have lost his mind. He would ask every young man who came for the room only one thing, whether he had a girlfriend. People say he hated men who lied to women. I haven’t seen him in years.”

One of the policemen emerged from the outhouse, pale and unsettled.

“There’s something strange,” he said quietly. “No sign of struggle. But there are fresh jasmine flowers near the bed. And the bulb… it works perfectly.”

As the crowd slowly dispersed, a faint breeze stirred the weeds in the neglected lawn. For a brief moment, someone thought they saw an old man standing behind the main house window, watching with his eyes sharp, his lips curved into a thin, satisfied smile.

Then the curtain fell.

And the house stood silent once more.