I was afraid, of myself, of what was hidden inside me. But I also saw something new in my fear: I wasn’t going to let it break me. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” I asked. “Because if I fall asleep,” he said, “history repeats itself.”
One night the light went out. In the darkness, for the first time, I took his hand. He didn’t let go. I whispered, “What if I’m scared?” He answered as if it were an oath: “Then I will continue watching until morning.” And that same darkness revealed another secret. He was ill. He didn’t have much time left.
“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” he said, “in this house… in this world.” My eyes filled with tears. “So you bought me?” He shook his head. “No. I trusted you… with my greatest fear.”
Something strange happened after that. Fear became routine. Routine became a kind of security. And then he collapsed. The following morning, there was no chair, no footsteps, no silent vigilance. Only sirens and the hospital. The white walls seemed like a prison.
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