“You can’t even walk!” The man said with a sneer, looking down at her from above, mockery on his lips.
He stood tall, or tried to. His tone was sharp, like a slap meant to sting.
“Why are you here? Don’t you understand? Your life is over. I… I have a new life.”
The words echoed against the sterile silence of the room.
“Do you want me to rewrite it in a dramatic, literary, cinematic, or some other specific style?”
He grinned at his own cruelty, as if the weight of betrayal could be softened with sarcasm.
“Finally, something is right!”
Elena said nothing.
Her eyes drifted slowly from one to the other.
Him: fidgeting, sweat beading along his temple, his shirt collar slightly bent—twisted, like the lies that clung to him.
Her: poised, expressionless, with the kind of detached calm you’d find in the corridors of a hospital where feelings had long been abandoned.
“So… why are you here?” Elena finally asked, her voice devoid of emotion, flat and cold, like a flatlined heartbeat.
“I think it’s best to tell you directly… before you hear it from someone else.” “We’re moving.
To the apartment.
Your apartment.
Well… the apartment used to be ours, but… I can’t anymore…”
He gestured limply, pointing vaguely toward his feet, as if their presence could explain his absence.
Elena, unfazed, reached for the slim folder already sitting on the table. It had been there all along. Waiting.
“Here it is,” she said calmly, handing it to him.
“Everything’s inside.”
The will.
The property transfer.
The carefully crafted paperwork for their “fresh start.”
“I…I’m done.”
“You’re giving us the house?” he asked, confused.
“Just like that?” the landlady added, not taking another step forward.
“Yes. It’s hers.
I have other things to do.”
He laughed—loud at first, almost triumphant—but his smirk cracked as fear slipped through the fissures.
“Other things? You? You can’t even walk!”
Elena closed her eyes.
Just for a breath.
And then, slowly, she opened them again. Her gaze was steady. Calm. There was no rage—only clarity. Only truth.
Without a word, she removed the blanket covering her legs. Her hands moved deliberately as she untied the cane resting nearby.
She sat upright.
Then, with quiet precision, she took a step.
And another.
The sound of her footsteps was faint, but in that charged silence, they rang louder than any shouted words.
He stood frozen.
She—the other woman—stared in disbelief, her mouth slightly agape.
“I was in an accident, not a life sentence,” Elena said, unhurriedly.
“But it doesn’t matter now.”
“How can you say that?” he stammered.
“But the doctors… you said…”
“You know what’s best for you.
I just need time.
And rest.
And stay away from you.
And you gave me all that. Inadvertently.”
She walked to the door.
And just before crossing the threshold, she turned back.
Her voice was clear, steady, and sharp—like the ring of glass shattering in still air:
“You took my home.
I took your freedom.”
“What?” her lover exclaimed, a little panicked.
“What do you mean?” he asked, but his voice was shaking.
Elena smiled—small and strained.
“The file. Read it carefully.
Especially… the last page.”
And then, she walked away.
Her cane tapped softly against the floor, each sound echoing with finality.
What followed wasn’t silence. It was a collapse.
A silent implosion of understanding.
He opened the folder with trembling fingers. Turned one page. Then another.
And then he found it.
The final paragraph.
And the blood drained from his face.
His lips moved, but nothing came out.
“According to the terms of the attachment, the transfer of ownership is only effective if the new owner accepts sole custody of a child born out of an affair.”
He looked up, stunned.
“You… you didn’t say anything about a child.”
She looked down, her voice barely above a breath.
“Because…” she whispered, “…it’s not yours.”
And behind her, only one sound remained—
The steady, fading rhythm of Elena’s cane, tapping down the hallway.