There was a creak from behind the door, soft but sharp, like a warning. You flinched. heart started pounding faster: Again? Once again, he will make you a target for his rage, as he has done many times in recent months, after his business has gone downhill. Every time there are new bruises, new scars, new silence after the screams.

You were sitting in the corner of the room, hugging your knees to your chest. His cheek, covered with bruises, hurt from the slightest movement. You listened to his footsteps—heavy, uncertain, approaching.

You expected a blow. A sharp cry. But instead, he knelt in front of you. His hands trembled as he gently lifted your chin. His gaze lingered on your cracked lips, your pale skin, the bluish shadows under your eyes.

You didn't look up—you just stared at the floor, as if into a void.

He froze. For the first time, there was something like fear on his face. Regret. Tears filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.

And then he embraced you. His hands were hot, and your body was cold, light, like paper. He cried as he held you close, and perhaps for the first time, he realized that he had broken the person he had once called his wife.