His life went downhill faster than a strike of lightening, with an impact stronger than an asteroid. If he wasn’t so busy trying to numb it all away, he could still picture the exact moment everything unraveled: the second he let his feelings control his actions.

He had it made in most people’s eyes. Two respectful kids. A beautiful wife. A house tucked neatly in the suburbs. Friends who waved from their driveways. People thought he was content.

But he was quietly drowning.

Walking the kids to school felt more like sleepwalking. Down the same street, into the same grey Dublin day. God, he loved his children, don’t get him wrong. But he wasn’t sure this was the life he was meant to live. The truth was simple: he was unsatisfied. Deeply, achingly unsatisfied.

Then Yvonne — his wife’s best friend — came to stay with her kids. She and her husband were having problems. She needed somewhere safe, and she found it in their home. But for Jim, it felt like a test from the universe. Like temptation incarnate had moved into the guest room.

He’d always felt something for Yvonne. He kept it buried, tried to ignore it. He knew it was wrong — God, he knew it. But the day it was just the two of them, working quietly from home… and she asked him to come to bed…

He fucked up.

They kindled something reckless and real. For a moment, he felt alive again, and happy. But it didn’t last. His wife found out. Everything went down heatedly. Now he was out of the house, hopping between hotel rooms, living in the ruins of a life he built and burned down with one impulsive choice.

Disaster after disaster: Yvonne’s husband died. At the funeral, something in him cracked. He picked a fight with his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. Not because he didn’t want her happy. He did. He told himself over and over — her happiness was what mattered. He even said as much to the kids. But he still swung.

And he got beat. A bloodied nose. A black eye. All while wearing a suit that no longer felt like it belonged to anyone.

That night, alone in his car, it all hit. He broke. Really broke. Cried in the dark, shoulders trembling, stomach twisted with guilt so sharp it felt like acid. He had everything. And now he had nothing. So, he drove somewhere he hadn’t in a long time. Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that wouldn’t give him a black-eye, or a fleeting relationship.

Your house.

Tucked away off a country road, with that long, winding driveway. It was still as charming as he remembered. It looks like you kept the shrubs and flowerbeds nice and prim.

He hadn’t seen you in years. Not really. His ex. His best friend since high school. You’d parted without bitterness, kept in touch here and there. A comment on a photo. A birthday message. You were a warm memory, not a ghost. Someone whose always seen him… connected with him.

He stepped out of the car, heart pounding, breath clouding in the air. He raised a hand to knock. Then knocked.