After meeting Ray, the guy from the medical shop, something shifted inside me. For the first time since we moved here, I felt a flicker of hope. A faint, timid spark in an otherwise smoggy sky. Maybe this was the beginning of something better. The headache that had clawed at my skull was gone, and I wasn't sure whether it was the medicine or just the psychological relief of knowing there was someone decent around me.
The day passed like any other—I went to work, returned by evening, and everything felt oddly… calm. That night, as I lay in bed beside her, I caught myself smiling. A small one. Maybe I was being too dramatic about this locality. Maybe things would fall into place now.
The next morning was a Sunday. The light filtered through the window in golden streaks, and for once, we didn't rush into chores or responsibilities. We spent the morning lazily cooking together in the kitchen. She wore one of my shirts—something she did on rare mornings like these—and we moved around the kitchen like a well-practiced team. From teasing each other over too much salt in the food to playfully flicking water on each other from the sink, it felt… warm. Real. That rare kind of happiness where you forget the world exists beyond your four walls.
By evening, we had eaten, cleaned, laughed, and lazed around enough for the day. Around 7 PM, I stepped out onto the balcony for some air. The sky was turning a deep violet, and the street was dimly lit—enough to cast long, ambiguous shadows.
That's when I saw him—Ray—walking toward our house.
I smiled instinctively. But before I could call out, he slowed down and stopped outside the young guy's house next door. My smile faded, replaced by a quiet curiosity.
The two exchanged a conversation. I couldn't hear them, but their body language said enough. It wasn't casual. It was friendly—too friendly. Ray laughed loudly and clapped the young guy on the back, the kind of hard, familiar smack friends give each other when exchanging inside jokes or reliving mischief. Ray had a grin I hadn't seen before—wide, carefree, almost... arrogant.
For a moment, it threw me off. Ray, the neatly dressed, soft-spoken gentleman from the shop, was laughing like an old pal with someone I had mentally labeled as a sleazy, vulgar delinquent.
Maybe he was just one of those people who got along with everyone. Maybe I was reading too much into it. He pointed toward our house and said something to the guy.
Perhaps, "I'm visiting them now."
But I couldn't shake the unease crawling under my skin.
I walked inside and told my wife, "He's here, get the coffee ready."
She nodded, tying her hair back, humming softly as she walked toward the kitchen. I waited by the door.
A minute later, the doorbell rang.
I opened it with a smile, but what greeted me wasn't what I expected.
He was smiling—but it wasn't the warm, modest smile from yesterday. This one was... different. A little too wide. A little too forced. There was something unsettling in the way his eyes didn't quite match the smile. They scanned me too quickly, as if checking a box.
Still, I forced myself to remain polite. "Come in," I said.
"Brought some fruits for you," he said, handing over a plastic bag. "Thought I shouldn't come empty-handed."
"Thanks, that's very kind."
He stepped in, his footsteps lighter than I remembered. My wife walked out with a smile and a tray in her hands. "Good evening," she said, polite and graceful as ever.
Ray smiled at her, this time more appropriately. "Nice to finally meet you. He's told me how amazing your cooking is."
She laughed modestly. "He's exaggerating."
We sat down in the living room—coffee, light snacks, some soft instrumental music playing on low volume. At first, the conversation was casual. Funny anecdotes from my work, his strange encounters with customers at the medical store, even her adding in stories from our college days. We laughed. I was beginning to relax.
Maybe I really was overthinking earlier.
But just as I started to believe the evening would go by without any oddity, there was a loud, sudden bang on the front door.
Not a knock. A bang.
All three of us froze.
The sound echoed through the flat, sharp and unexpected—like someone had kicked the door with force.
The bang was loud—too loud. It jolted through our walls like a shockwave, making all three of us flinch hard, our bodies instinctively tensing.
I was about to take a cautious step toward the door when Ray grabbed my arm. His voice was low, sharp, serious.
"Wait," he whispered. "I think I know what this could be."
Cold sweat immediately began trickling down my back. His tone wasn't casual anymore—it had shifted, alarmingly calm yet commanding, the way someone sounds when they've been through this before.
"It's probably a burglary," he said. "Happens a lot around here. Trust me, we don't have much time. Just do exactly what I say."
My wife and I exchanged a silent, fearful glance and nodded.
"Turn off every light. Now."
I rushed to the other rooms, switching off bulbs and tube lights in a frantic blur—kitchen, bedroom, hallway—while my wife quickly flicked the switches in the living area. We moved as if a single second of delay could cost us dearly.
As I returned to the main room, the entire house now cloaked in pitch-black silence, I heard it.
The click of the door's lock being tampered with. A subtle creak—the unmistakable sound of the door slowly opening.
My chest tightened. The darkness made everything feel slower, louder, more vulnerable.
Shapes were just vague silhouettes now. I could make out Ray's outline—tense, alert.
"Under the table," he hissed urgently.
I dropped down, sliding under it without thinking. My breaths shallow, hands trembling.
Then came the footsteps.
Soft at first, like they were trying to stay quiet—but in the dead silence of the flat, they felt deafening. They grew louder, nearer. Someone—or someones—were definitely inside.
I tried to spot my wife. I wasn't sure where she had hidden. The fear that she might be in plain sight made my heart pound violently.
Then I heard a faint sound. A rustle. A whisper-like murmur. My eyes adjusted slowly, and I saw what I thought was her shape near the futon closet. It looked like she had managed to squeeze herself inside. The closet could barely fit one person, but she had made it.
But something about her seemed… off. The way she stood, the way her silhouette moved—it felt stiffer than usual. Almost like she was trying not to shake. Maybe it was just fear, or maybe my nerves were playing tricks on me.
That's when I realized something strange.
The futon closet could only fit one person. So where had Ray hidden?
The footsteps were still moving around, and at one point, they entered the adjacent room above. The creaking of wooden floorboards gave us the briefest sense of distance.
Then—thud!
A dull, sharp sound came from the futon closet.
I whispered urgently in the dark, "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, honey," she replied, her voice hushed, shaky. "Just… hit my hand. I'm okay."
But her voice was strange too. Hesitant. Like she was trying hard to sound normal but failing. There was a slight pause before each word, as if she was unsure of what to say. I told myself it was trauma—fear can mess with your tone, your words, everything. She had always been sensitive to stress. Maybe this was just how she processed panic.
And then came the relief. Police sirens.
Wailing, getting closer.
The footsteps inside the house scrambled. I could hear them rushing toward the back door, retreating into the night.
We stayed still for a moment longer, just to be sure.
Then, suddenly, the living room light flicked on. The harsh white glow stung my eyes after the pitch dark.
It was Ray.
And my wife.
Both standing in the middle of the room, looking at me as if waiting for me to come out from under the table.
I crawled out slowly, my limbs still stiff with tension. I turned toward her, concerned.
She was soaked—her clothes clinging to her skin like she had walked through a sudden downpour. Her hair was wet too, strands sticking to her cheeks.
"What happened to you?" I asked, my eyes scanning her.
She gave a weak smile. "The closet was too hot."
Her voice was unusually flat.
I didn't question her much further. I didn't have the mental bandwidth to. The entire evening had drained every last drop of energy I had.
Ray clapped a hand on my back with a grin that felt… too casual.
"You okay, man?"
"Yeah," I replied slowly. "Where did you hide?"
He pointed toward the cupboard in the corner of the room. "That one. Just big enough if you squeeze in. Sorry for the chaos—this place, man... it never runs out of surprises."
I nodded, trying to believe him. I thanked him for his help and apologized for the inconvenience.
My wife was quiet the entire time. I held her hand. It was ice cold. Her eyes darted around the room, still unsettled. She nodded at Ray's goodbye but said nothing.
Maybe she was just overwhelmed. Can't blame her. She had a tender soul—always did.
As I closed the door behind him, a hollow silence wrapped the room again. I stood still, replaying the night in my head.
Something didn't feel right. But I didn't have the courage to dig into that thought.
All I knew was—I was regretting every moment of my decision to move here. This place… this damned place… it had drained all color from our lives.
And for the first time in weeks, I asked myself in complete honesty—
Why the hell did I ever come here?