He woke at six. He ate in silence. He worked in his study until noon, surrounded by screens and papers and the sound of keyboards. He napped in the afternoons in a darkened sitting room, always in his wheelchair, always with a blanket across his knees.
And it was during those naps that I began to see the man behind the monster.
One rainy afternoon in November, I came to check on him and found him asleep, his head tilted against the side of the chair, his mouth slightly open. His breathing was slow and heavy.
Without thinking, I adjusted the blanket over his legs.
Then I noticed a wet line on his scarred cheek.
He was crying in his sleep.
I stood there for a long time. Then, very gently, I wiped the tear away with my thumb.
“Whoever hurt you,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know why I said it. I only know that his hand, resting on the armrest, closed softly around my fingers, and for one heartbeat, he held on.
Then his breathing changed, and I pulled away, my heart pounding.
I told myself he hadn’t really been awake.
After that, I began leaving small things for him.
A cup of tea, the way my mother used to make it, with honey and a thin slice of ginger. A paperback novel on his bedside table, one of my favorites. A small vase of wildflowers I picked from the cliffside garden that no one seemed to tend.
He never mentioned them.
But the tea was always empty when I came to collect the cup. The book’s bookmark moved a little further each day. And the flowers stayed on his table until they withered, and even then, he wouldn’t let the maids throw them away.
One evening, as I knelt to wash his feet, he said abruptly:
“Why do you do it?”
