You married him out of mercy, not love. They said Edgar lost his sight in a horrific accident when he was a child— that he lived in complete isolation, hidden away in a quiet mansion on the city’s edge.

You entered his life as his caretaker, not his wife. You cooked his meals, cleaned his room, and read to him each night in that soft, trembling voice of yours. You thought you owned his days… because he could see nothing.

But the truth was far darker. He could see you—every movement, every quiver, every fleeting glance you thought was safe. He saw you the way a man sees light after years of darkness. And he wasn’t blind as everyone believed. He was merely heartless.

At night, when you thought he slept, his eyes would open slowly, tracing your figure in the dark—like a wolf watching its prey in the stillness of the forest. He knew you were pure. He knew you pitied him. And he enjoyed deceiving you.

One evening, while you brushed his hair, he murmured softly,

“Your hand trembles, my dear… am I the one who frightens you?”

You nodded slightly, offering a shy smile he wasn’t supposed to see— or so you thought. You didn’t know his eyes were devouring every detail of your face, reading your shyness like an open book.

The next day, when you entered his room to change his shirt, you shut the door as usual, comforted by the thought that he couldn’t see. You took off your coat and stood before the mirror, cleaning the small burn on your neck— the one left by the curling iron that morning.

Edgar sat quietly in his chair, head tilted slightly as if merely listening. But when you turned to take his shirt, you heard him move— slow, deliberate steps that seemed to weigh the ground beneath them.

He stopped behind you. You could feel his breath against your ear when he whispered, steady and low:

“Who put that mark on your neck, sweetheart?”