On the morning of March 30, in the quiet town of Rosemary, a gentle mist hung over the cobblestone wet streets, the air crisp with the fading chill of late winter with budding trees and occasional rain.
Dr. Alversanola lived a grateful life with his small yet tightly-knit family.
His family included his mother, father, wife, sister-in-law, and mother-in-law. It was a home filled with warmth, gratitude, and companionship.
A dedicated ophthalmologist by profession, Dr. Alversanola had spent his entire life in Rosemary—his birthplace, his sanctuary, and the center of everything he held dear. He was a disciplined man and had many family responsibilities upon him.
Each morning, at precisely 9 AM, he arrived at his clinic. Before leaving for his clinic at the end of the street, he placed a gentle kiss on his loving wife's forehead—a quiet beauty of love that had become second nature to him. His kindness and integrity earned him the respect of all who knew him.
Upon reaching his clinic, he noticed an elderly man patiently sitting outside on a public bench, his hands folded over his old long stick. His name was Muhammad Ishaq, a former patient of his. As Dr. Alversanola approached the door of the clinic, the old man stood up with deliberate movements and greeted him with a smile. Alversanola smiled back, unlocked the clinic's door, and they went inside. He requested the elderly man to wait a little longer. With no complaint, the gentleman nodded and sat back down.
Meanwhile, the clinic's nurse arrived. It was a young boy, Yuru, of age no more than thirteen. Yuru's eyes held a quiet desperation, and his face carried a smile—his parents were both gravely ill, requiring expensive treatment, but he had no means to support them.
Yuru's pain and helplessness moved Alversanola's heart. To help the poor child, he offered him a position as a nurse at the clinic, ensuring he would earn a fair wage.
The boy, overwhelmed with gratitude, when he first received his wage of the month, had clung to the doctor and cried, shedding tears of gratitude. Alversanola wiped his tears, and the kid returned to work the next day with a quiet, satisfying smile that genuinely melted the doctor's heart.
Not once did Dr. Alversanola scold him for any mistakes, nor did he overburden him with tasks. The boy began cleaning the clinic the moment he stepped inside.
Alversanola prepared the room and beckoned the elderly man inside. He got up with deliberate movements, pressing his weight on the stick, and went inside.
Following the doctor's instructions, he pulled out a chair, settled into it, and began speaking, "Doctor, I had come to you before regarding my friend. You tested my eyes and prescribed me these glasses. I don't quite recognize the name, and it was really helpful. I could read books and see everything clearly; everything was fine. But suddenly, once again, after nearly eight or nine long months, my sight has begun to dull once again."
Dr. Alversanola listened intently while maintaining his usual composure, meticulously examining the patient's pupils, assessing their dilation and responsiveness.
He was afraid that the old man had either presbyopia or astigmatism, since these cases were common at that time period. He called Yuru and told him to bring the whiteboard. Without a question, Yuru retrieved a whiteboard on which words were inscribed in varying font sizes, ranging from the minuscule to the boldly prominent.
"Sit at a distance and read these aloud," the doctor instructed the old man. The elderly man turned to the board, squinted, struggling to see the words. He could barely discern the letters at 72pt (25.50mm) and 100pt (approximately 34mm), whereas, during his last visit, he had managed to read even the 48pt (17mm) size text without difficulty—according to the reports and prescription. Dr. Alversanola sighed inwardly, his suspicions confirmed.
"You have presbyopia," he informed the elderly man with a grave yet gentle tone. "It's a common affliction among individuals aged fifty to sixty. And unfortunately, much like the graying of hair or the frailty of bones, it is an inevitable consequence of aging. Your condition has progressed, and we'll need to adjust your prescription." The doctor scribbled a new prescription for bifocal lenses, known as double-vision glasses, altering the lens power to accommodate the deterioration.
The old man made a long face in dissatisfaction.
"The human eye is among the most delicate of all bodily organs; its tissues are exceptionally soft and fragile," Alversanola said upon seeing him unsatisfied. "Much like our inability to permanently halt the progression of age, certain conditions—such as this—or myopia, hyperopia, or astigmatism—can only be managed or cured by advanced surgeries but cannot be cured permanently. Moreover, our country lacks advanced surgical equipment of sufficient quality to provide an alternative solution. And because of the war, the situation has worsened."
The elderly man absorbed his words with quiet acceptance, nodding as understanding settled upon him. "I understand, Doctor," he smiled, and with a respectful nod, he took his leave.
Dr. Alversanola watched him go, a lingering sense of melancholy pooling in his chest.
He sighed and thought, "He likely does not trust me, and most likely he won't return anymore."
He looked at Yuru while reclining in his chair. Looking more closely, he noticed a fresh wound adorning Yuru's ear. His brows furrowed in concern.
He walked to him and grabbed his ears gently. "Have you been fighting?" he inquired, yet he didn't act unkindly. Yuru, occupied with meticulously cleaning the surgical equipment, did not immediately respond. He scratched his eyebrows and denied it.
But Alversanola was not convinced. He examined the wound more closely. It was fresh and had a little blood stuck to it. Without a single word, he took antiseptic and bandages from the medicine shelf, then carefully cleaned the injury with fatherly care, ensuring the boy felt as little pain as possible.
"This is not a serious injury, but you should be more careful," he said, rubbing the dirty, sticky skin, dabbing the area gently. Yuru said nothing but blushed in gratitude.
At that moment, the rhythmic sound of knuckles rapping against the door.
A soft cough followed before a familiar voice chimed in. "How wholesome, Doctor Alversanola," his wife, Sasha, mused as she stepped inside the clinic, her lips curling into an amused smile. "You always treat children with such tenderness, and yet when I ask for one of our own, you refuse. That's quite rude."
With a teasing smile, she strode toward him, grasped his tie, and pulled him close—so close that their lips nearly touched.
Alversanola's whole body shook, his composure slipping into mild embarrassment. The boy averted his eyes, pretending to focus on his work, slightly distracted.
"Didn't I tell you not to flirt with me at my clinic?" Alversanola pushed her behind him with a gentle touch.
"Mr. Husband~" His wife only loved to discomfort him. She placed a neatly wrapped package before his chest. "You must be hungry. Here's your breakfast; you left it on the table. And as your responsible and caring wife, I am really heartbroken. And when you return home, I expect a handwritten apology letter on scented paper with your expensive pen. No excuses. Otherwise," she wrapped her hands around him and whispered, "tonight's punishment will be far harsher than the last time…" She playfully bit his left ear and left him blushing.
Dr. Alversanola was momentarily stunned, his body temperature rising.
Yuru failed to pretend and couldn't control his laughter any longer, covering his mouth with his hand.
Alversanola, slightly exasperated, pinched Yuru's waist. Yuru yelped, squirming away with a fit of uncontrollable giggles. He was particularly ticklish, and even the slightest prod would send him into a frenzy.
Alversanola never ate breakfast, lunch, or snacks alone—he needed a partner to share with. He gave more than two pieces of toasted bread and an egg to Yuru.
However, when it came to sweets, he was far less generous, often hiding them away for himself or later.
As the evening settled and the last of his appointments concluded, he closed the clinic at five.
On his way home, he saw a group of children playing cricket in a congested alleyway. A flicker of nostalgia hit him. "Young those days!" he thought and, approaching them, wondered if he could just hit a single shot. "May I take a single shot?"
The children exchanged glances with each other and requested, "Join us for a match, Doctor! We're one player short," they insisted, grabbing his arms.
Even better, Dr. Alversanola thought. He agreed and spent time in a carefree five-over match.
From that day onward, it became a routine; every evening, he would play cricket with them.
When he finally arrived home, he noticed the house was empty—his parents, his in-laws, everyone was gone. He panicked and called his mother-in-law's residence, but no one answered.
Before he could contemplate further, someone whistled from behind. Turning, he found his wife standing behind him, clad in nothing but a soft cotton robe. She was wet and had worn nothing inside.
"Hey, husband," she purred. "They won't be back until tomorrow. I sent them to their houses."
Naïve as ever, Dr. Alversanola frowned, not realizing the trap. "Why?"
His wife smirked, stepping closer, her fingers curling around his wrist as she pushed him backward into the bedroom. "You're so innocent, still unaware of what's going to happen? I recall telling you," she whispered, "that your punishment tonight would be really hard."
Before he could react, she shoved him onto the bed, straddling him with predatory ease. "Where is my letter, dear husband?"
Dr. Alversanola stiffened, realizing too late that he had fallen into her trap.
She leaned in, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his jeans.
"You never learn, do you? I guess you want to get devoured after all. Tonight," she whispered, her body on top of him, "you will learn your lesson really hard."
With a sultry chuckle, she pulled the strings of her robe, letting the fabric slip away, and turned the lights off—to set the mood.
On April 4, at 2:12 PM, Leon remained bedridden, his body in unbearable pain, weighed down by exhaustion and fever. He had some medicine Maria brought for him. Suddenly, his feverish sleep was abruptly disturbed by Maria's loud screams and yelling. She was scolding them for breaking Sarah and Sumi's bed, tearing through the silence of the house. It hit Leon's ears and made his headache worse.
"All day long, you run around like wild animals! Can't you sit still for once? And look at this mess! The bed is ruined! Clothes are scattered everywhere! What is this place, an animal park?"
Leon groaned in annoyance, pressing his palm to his forehead, and tried to get up even though his muscles felt like they were tearing apart.
His vision swam slightly as he staggered out of bed and made his way toward the children's room upstairs, where Maria was yelling at Masao and some other kids in frustration. She was scolding the younger ones for breaking the bed racks of Sumi and Sarah's bed, her voice harsh and loud.
Leon carefully walked upstairs, trying not to collapse on the stairs. He stepped up while holding the handrails.
He slowly pushed the door open and snapped, "Maria! That's enough! Stop yelling at them!" Leon's voice was rough, laced with irritation and exhaustion.
Maria turned, her expression softening immediately as she noticed Leon's pale complexion. "You should be resting," her anger turned into wifely concern.
But Leon didn't give a damn about her concern. "What happened? Why are you shouting?" he asked.
Maria huffed, crossing her arms. "They've trashed the room again! Masao jumped on Sumi's bed so much that the damn thing broke."
Masao was already on the verge of tears, his small hands clutching the hem of his shirt. He was trying to hold his tears back, but at last, he burst out crying.
He ran straight to Leon and started complaining about Maria, wrapping his arms around his waist. "Brother! She's been saying bad things to me! She doesn't like me! She can't stand me! She can't stand me!"
Leon lifted Masao into his arms even though he could barely stand properly. Maria's jaw was wide open in shock after what Masao said.
He looked at Maria and said, "They're just kids, Maria. You don't have to scream at them for every little thing."
Maria scoffed. "Little thing? You think cleaning up after them, cooking for them, going to college, and handling everything on my own is nothing?"
Leon didn't back down and yelled, "I told you not to yell at them! They look up to you. Scaring them won't fix anything." He warned her for the last time. "If you yell anymore ever again, you won't step in my house."
The children, realizing Leon was the most dominant person, made things even worse.
All of them rushed toward Leon—except Sumi and Sarah—and hid behind him, as if Maria was a kidnapper, and started complaining altogether.
Maria made a long face because of their act. Leon knelt on the floor and gently put Masao down, ruffling his hair. "Listen," he said in a softer tone. "You guys need to be careful when you play, okay? Maria gets tired, and we don't want to make things harder for her, do we?"
The children nodded, their eyes still filled with unshed crocodile tears.
Leon wiped Masao's eyes with his sleeve and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "It's okay, I'll get it fixed. But be careful next time."
Maria, still standing with her arms crossed, looked at them, tears of frustration visible in her eyes. Without another word, she walked out of the room, wiping her teary eyes roughly.
Sumi and Sarah tried to stop her, but she wouldn't listen.
She walked downstairs and busied herself in the kitchen, her movements rushed and rough. She started washing the dishes while mumbling, "Day after day, the same damn routine. Cook lunch and dinner for them, clean, take care of them, go to college, wash the damn dishes, as if I enjoy cleaning all that. On top of that, take care of Leon, who most of his time spends outside or on bed as ill. And what do I get as a prize? Yelling… As if I'm their machine, they had bought me."
Leon, hearing her complaints from upstairs, told the kids to apologize to her.
All of them went downstairs together, peeking at her from the kitchen doorway, their little faces full of guilt. Sarah went inside, dragged a chair, and started taking the plates from the drying rack.
Sumi pushed all of them inside, yelling, "Why are you all standing like morons?!"
They all walked in one after another, stepping inside, awkwardly reaching for the dishes to help her. But Maria said nothing—not a word, not even acknowledgment; she just continued her work.
They roamed around her all day, but she didn't even acknowledge them. While she was folding their clothes upstairs inside their room, Masao slowly pushed the door open and walked inside.
Everyone was just peeking in, including Sumi and Sarah. Masao sat beside her on the floor and repeatedly called her, "Sister…? Sister? Sister!"
But she didn't like it and kept on wearing the long face. Masao apologized over and over, "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I'll always listen to you, so please talk to me. Look, forgive me, Sister."
Maria's grip on the spatula tightened. Masao started rubbing his eyes. "Sister, I'm really sorry… I won't jump on the bed ever again, please talk to me."
After his repetitive apology, she finally spoke and told him to stop whimpering like a girl. She pushed some unfolded clothes to him and said, "Help me fold these."
Masao smiled innocently and immediately started folding the clothes. "You're doing it wrong. Let me show you." The atmosphere turned wholesome once again.
Sumi pushed the others inside from behind once more. "How long are you going to stand here like idiots? Go help her, or I'm going to beat your little asses!"
Sarah chuckled and joined them too. They clumsily helped as Maria taught Masao how to fold clothes properly, her frustration melting away in an instant.
Leon had gotten up to get some water. As he reached the kitchen doorway, he listened to their laughter and chatter, all together. A small smile tugged at his lips.
He knew Maria wasn't one who'd stay mad at someone for a whole day, especially children. She would probably leave around 7 PM with a smile on her face, back to her house. Kenzo had returned to Feropia yesterday. Noor and Roy were out buying some vegetables and meat for dinner.
Leon walked around upstairs, drawn by the rhythmic sound of rain hitting against the windows. He walked to the roof on the second floor. After Roy's room, there was a door made of glass and glass.
He pushed aside the heavy curtains aside and opened a the door. A cold breeze hit him immediately. The whole roof was soaked in with rain, droplets sliding down the glass. A cool breeze seeped through, carrying the crisp scent of rain.
There was a rocking chair. He dragged it in front of the door and sat on it—an old wooden piece he had insisted on getting when he bought the house.
Everyone teased him, calling it a "grandpa chair." But he didn't care. He loved simple things. He just wanted a simple life like this—quiet and peaceful.
Sighing, he settled into his chair, letting the steady back-and-forth motion lull him into a trance. Outside, the rain poured harder, sending a shiver through his skin as the cold air seeped in. Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut.
Leon drifted into sleep, the sound of rain whispering through the whole night…