The following days were quiet, but tension hung in the air like an unspoken curse. The house that once held only echoes of past grievances was now filled with people trying to piece together what was left of their broken family. Roselle should have felt happiness after the engagement, but the atmosphere at home was suffocating. The past lingered, refusing to fade.
Faizal remained withdrawn. He kept to himself, only appearing when necessary, as if he were an unwelcome guest in his own home. He had thought Roselle’s forgiveness would ease the guilt gnawing at his chest, but it hadn’t. The more time he spent within these walls, the more he realized how much he had truly lost.
One evening, he stood outside, staring at the small garden that Roselle’s grandmother meticulously maintained. He could hear muffled laughter from inside—his daughter, his parents, even Roselle’s in-laws, all sharing a moment he could never truly be part of. The distance between him and his own blood felt insurmountable.
As the days passed, Roselle noticed the shift in her father. He seemed haunted, trapped in a cycle of regret. She didn’t know if she should reach out to him or leave him to battle his own demons. It wasn’t her burden to carry. Yet, a part of her—perhaps the part that still longed for a father—felt compelled to watch over him from a distance.
The neighborhood hadn’t been kind to Imran either. Rumors spread like wildfire. The man who had abandoned his daughter, the man who had taken a life, was now walking among them. Some merely avoided him; others whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
One afternoon, as Faizal walked past a local shop, an elderly woman he once knew as a family friend turned her back on him. A group of younger men, unfamiliar faces but sharp tongues, muttered under their breaths as he passed. “Murderer.” “Drunkard.” “He doesn’t belong here.”
Faizal clenched his fists, lowering his gaze. He had expected this, but the weight of it was heavier than he anticipated.
That night, unable to silence the voices in his head, he stepped outside for a walk. The air was cool, the sky empty of stars. He walked aimlessly, his thoughts spiraling. He regretted everything—every choice, every mistake. But regret changed nothing. He was still the same man who had destroyed his own family.
He found himself by the riverbank, staring at the water’s surface. He had been given a second chance, yet he didn’t know what to do with it. As the wind rustled through the trees, he whispered to himself, “Maybe some people don’t deserve redemption.” Little did he know, fate had yet to deliver its final blow.
The night was thick with silence, broken only by the distant hum of passing cars and the occasional bark of a stray dog. Imran walked aimlessly through the dimly lit streets, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Regret gnawed at his insides, a relentless whisper reminding him of the past he could never change. Tonight, it felt heavier than usual. The ghosts of his sins followed him in the shadows, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to truly feel their weight.
His feet carried him toward a familiar place—a small alleyway near an old convenience store, the same one he and Katelyn used to walk past during late-night strolls. How many times had they laughed here? How many times had she held his hand, oblivious to the monster he would become? He clenched his jaw, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged. A man, staggering under the influence of alcohol, reeking of cheap liquor and desperation. Imran barely noticed him until their shoulders brushed.
“Watch it,” the drunkard slurred, his voice thick with aggression.
Faizal took a step back, raising his hands. “I didn’t mean to—”
The man’s eyes darkened with rage, his breathing heavy and erratic. Before Faizal could react, the gleam of a knife flashed under the streetlight. A sharp pain bloomed in his abdomen, stealing his breath. He staggered, falling onto his knees as hot blood seeped through his shirt, painting the pavement beneath him in deep crimson.
His vision blurred. His mind, however, was crystal clear.
This is how she felt.
The realization hit him harder than the blade. Katelyn’s terrified eyes, the way she had gasped for air, the blood on his hands that night. He had done this. He had inflicted this same pain, this same horror. And now, the universe had delivered it back to him.
The drunken man stumbled away, disappearing into the night as if nothing had happened. Imran clutched his wound, gasping. He tried to move, dragging himself toward a faint glow of light from a nearby house. A neighbor’s house.
Weakly, he knocked on the door. His fingers barely held the strength to make a sound.
The door creaked open, and the tired, wrinkled face of an old man peered out. Mr. Hafiz, the very same neighbor who had once smiled at him and Katelyn in their happier days.
“Help me,” Faizal rasped, his voice frail.
Mr. Hafiz stared at him, his eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he shut the door.
Faizal slumped back onto the pavement, disbelief washing over him. Was this what Roselle had felt when she needed him? Was this the kind of helplessness she had endured when he abandoned her?
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two.
The pain was unbearable, his body shivering from the loss of blood. He wanted to scream, to cry, to curse the world—but he had no energy left. He could only lay there, waiting for death to claim him. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, it would be a fitting end.
Then, footsteps.
Light, hurried, familiar.
Roselle.
She had been on her way to the store when she saw the figure lying in the street. Her heart pounded as she drew closer, and when she recognized the face—pale, pained, barely conscious—her breath hitched.
“Dad?”
His eyes flickered open at the sound of her voice. For a moment, she hesitated. Memories of abandonment, of years spent without a father, flooded her mind. A cruel part of her wanted to walk away, to leave him as he had once left her. But another part—a softer, more human part—couldn’t.
With a sharp inhale, she pulled out her phone.
“Hold on,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I’m calling for help.”
As the distant wail of an ambulance approached, Faizal realized something: this was not redemption. This was not forgiveness. This was just the consequences of his own making.
And for the first time in his life, he truly understood what it meant to suffer.