As I woke up on a seemingly normal morning, I never thought that by the end of the day, I would be sitting in a police station, accused of a crime I didn’t commit. It all started with a visit to my father’s grave, a ritual that had become my solace since his passing six months ago.
The crisp morning air and the quiet of the cemetery were my companions as I placed a bouquet of white lilies, my father’s favorite, on his grave. As I whispered my goodbye, tears streaming down my face, I noticed a frail, elderly woman standing by a freshly dug grave, clutching a white cane. Her name was Kira, and her husband had just passed away. I offered my condolences and a simple act of kindness, walking her home, but little did I know that it would change everything.
Kira’s sons had abandoned her at the cemetery, a fact that struck me with indignation. As we walked, she shared with me her pain and bitterness towards her sons. When we arrived at her home, she invited me in for tea. Her warm and welcoming home was a stark contrast to her somber mood. As I looked around, I noticed a photo of a younger Kira and her husband in front of the Eiffel Tower. She explained that her husband had installed cameras all over the house because he didn’t trust anyone, not even their sons.
