Larry Kingston sat quietly in his wheelchair beside the grand window of his mansion, staring into the dark blue evening sky. His hands trembled on the armrests. His legs, once strong enough to climb mountains and chase dreams, now lay still and lifeless beneath a blanket.
Inside the mansion, anger exploded.
Rosa, his wife, stood in front of him with blazing eyes and a face twisted by grief.
“I wish you had died in that accident, Larry,” she screamed. “I wish it was you instead of my sister. You should not be alive.”
Her words echoed through the marble-walled living room like knives.
Larry swallowed hard. “Rosa… it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want your sister to die. I loved her like family.”
“Don’t say her name!” Rosa shouted. “You should have protected her. You should have saved her!”
Larry’s eyes filled with tears. He had replayed that night in his mind a thousand times—the rain pouring down, the car skidding, the scream, the crash, the broken glass, the darkness. He had survived, but paralyzed. Rosa’s sister had not survived at all.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
But Rosa was no longer listening. Her grief had hardened into hatred, and he was the closest target.
“You ruined everything,” she spat. “I can’t stand looking at you. I can’t stand hearing your voice. I can’t stay in this place with you.”
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the whole mansion shook.
For a long time, Larry didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at the empty doorway, feeling abandoned, useless, broken, and guilty.
Maybe she’s right, he thought. Maybe I shouldn’t be alive.
That night the mansion felt colder than ever. Too big. Too quiet. Too empty. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He sat in darkness, asking himself the same question again and again.
Why am I still here?
Around midnight, something inside him finally gave way.
He wheeled himself toward the front door, into the cold night, down the long driveway, through the gate, and out onto the silent road.
Just one car, he thought. One impact, and it all ends.
Far away, headlights appeared.
Larry took a deep breath and pushed his wheelchair toward the asphalt.
But just as the wheels crossed the edge of the road, a hand yanked him back sharply.
“Sir, what are you doing?” a girl’s voice cried. “Stop! Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Larry turned in shock.
Behind him stood a teenage girl—thin, tired, dusty, clearly hungry—but with the brightest, most frightened eyes he had ever seen. She gripped the wheelchair handles as if her life depended on it.
A car tore past them with a furious horn blast, wind slapping their faces.
The girl exhaled shakily. “Sir, are you okay? Why would you do that? You scared me.”
Larry stared at her. “Let go,” he said weakly. “Please. I know what I’m doing. I just want it to end.”
She looked horrified. “No, sir. You can’t say that. As long as there is life, there is hope.”
Larry gave a bitter laugh. “Hope? What hope do I have? My wife hates me. My legs are useless. My life is useless.”
The girl shook her head, and tears filled her eyes.
“Sir, your life is still better than mine,” she said softly. “You have a home. You have food. You have a bed. Me… I have no one. My parents died years ago. I was living with my uncle in the village, but he tried to force himself on me. I ran away this morning. I haven’t eaten. I don’t know where I’ll sleep tonight.”