Redemption

“Boss, is it alright if I leave twenty minutes early today? My wife’s in a bit of a rush at home, and she really needs my help with something.”

“That’s fine,” my boss said without looking up. “Just make sure everything’s up to date before you go.”

“Wife? I thought you were gay, honestly.”

“Fuck off, Ben.”

Ben burst out laughing. “Hahaha! Don’t take it so seriously, come on.”

“When a gay person says something like that, it really means a lot, you know,” I replied, forcing a grin.

“I know you like it when I say it!” Ben shouted from across the office, still laughing.

“Hahahahaha!” The rest of the office joined in, echoing his amusement like a broken chorus.

“Yeah, funny,” I muttered, grabbing my coat. “Anyway, I’m off. See you tomorrow.”

As the laughter died behind me, I sighed. It’s really frustrating to work with people who can’t seem to be offended by anything. No matter what you say, they always find a way to twist it into another joke, another laugh. Every day feels the same—wake up, drag myself here, drown in paperwork, and pretend the humor makes it easier. Sometimes it feels like I’m stuck in a loop that never ends. Same screens. Same voices. Same meaningless smiles.

Home, though—that’s different.

Home is warmth. It’s life.

Diana—my wife—is the kind of woman you can’t help but fall in love with twice. The first time because she’s beautiful, the second because she’s real. Her hair used to be pitch black, but a few months after our wedding, she dyed it light brown. I wasn’t sure at first, but the color caught the sunlight in this way that made it look like honey melting into fire. Her eyes are what got me, though. They’re... unreal. At first glance, they seem black, maybe a deep brown—but under the light, they turn this deep amber, with threads of red like glowing embers. I’ve caught myself staring at them mid-conversation more times than I’d admit.

Her lips were the first thing I noticed before our first kiss. I knew it right then—that was the woman I’d marry. And I did.

We have a daughter, Clara. Our little storm in a pink dress. She’s six going on sixteen, already bossing both of us around like she runs the place. She’s nothing like me—thank God for that. It’s like living with two Dianas: one with lipstick, one with crayons. But she’s got my smile. That’s the only part of me she kept, and somehow... that’s enough.

So yeah, that’s our perfect little family. And perfect little families get mad when you’re late, especially my wife. She didn’t really need my help at home today; I just promised I’d pick up bread from the bakery. Last time I was five minutes late, it was sold out, and I ended up walking ten kilometers to find another loaf. My calves still haven’t forgiven me.

Leaving twenty minutes early? A small sacrifice for domestic peace.

The bell above the bakery door chimed softly as I stepped in. The smell hit me instantly—freshly baked bread, a mix of warmth and sweetness that always made me feel like a kid again. The air was hazy with flour, and the glass cases gleamed under the soft yellow lights. A radio hummed somewhere in the back, playing an old pop song from the 2000s, faint and tinny.

“Hello, could I get two loaves of bread, please?” I said, stepping up to the counter.

“Of course, sir,” the woman said. Her hands were dusted with flour, her apron dotted with white streaks. She smiled—kind eyes, tired but genuine. “That’ll be €1.20.”

I handed her a €2 coin. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir! Have a lovely day!”

“You too,” I said, smiling as I stepped back into the crisp air.

Outside, the evening had settled in with that golden haze that makes everything look gentler than it really is. I glanced at my watch—6:42 p.m. Not bad. If I hurried, I’d make it home before seven. Maybe Diana would actually smile instead of scold me tonight.

Normally, I take my time walking home. There’s something meditative about it—the sound of my shoes on the pavement, the faint hum of cars in the distance, the cool air brushing my face. But tonight... something felt different. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to get home faster. Maybe it was excitement, maybe unease. A gut feeling. My birthday was tomorrow—maybe Diana and Clara had a surprise waiting. The thought made me grin.

Yeah, maybe that’s what it was. Just anticipation.

When I stepped inside, the world felt... off.

I kicked off my shoes, hung up my jacket—same routine as always—but the silence was wrong. The house always had noise: the TV murmuring in the background, Clara humming to her toys, or the sound of Diana’s heels clicking across the floor. Now, there was nothing. Just stillness.

“Diana?” I called softly, my voice echoing too clearly.

“Clara, baby, Daddy’s home,” I said again, quieter this time.

No response.

The air felt heavy, thick, like it hadn’t been breathed in for hours. I tried to shake off the unease, convincing myself it was just in my head. Maybe they went for a walk. Maybe they were playing a trick on me. But then, as I moved down the hall, I noticed it—the faint, metallic tang in the air.

Blood.

At first, I didn’t believe it. It was subtle, like rust or burnt metal. My stomach twisted, and my pulse began to climb. I turned toward the kitchen. The door was half open.

“Emil?” My voice cracked slightly. I pushed the door open.

The first thing I noticed wasn’t the blood—it was the stillness. Everything in the kitchen was exactly as it should be, except for the light. The lamp above the table flickered once, then steadied. Then I saw it—the dark smear on the floor. My brain didn’t register it right away. It looked like spilled wine... until I saw the chair.

And her.

Diana was sitting in her usual chair, the one she used when she felt dizzy or tired. Her head was tilted, her hair falling like a curtain over her face. The chair was slightly askew, her arm dangling off the edge. Then I saw the rest.

The blood wasn’t spilled wine. It was everywhere.

It had soaked into the floorboards, pooled under the chair, splattered up the legs of the table. It was thick, dark, almost black in places, the metallic scent filling the room until I could taste it.

“Diana!” I shouted, the name tearing from my throat. My legs moved before my mind did.

I grabbed her shoulder—cold. Too cold. Her skin was pale, her face empty of all color, her eyes open and glassy.

“No, no, no, no...” My voice trembled as I shook her gently. Nothing. I shook harder. Still nothing.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears, each pulse a hammer strike. The silence between beats was unbearable. I could hear my own breathing—ragged, shallow, breaking apart.

Then I heard it.

A sound. Soft, from the hallway. A muffled sob.

“Clara?” I whispered. The word barely escaped my throat.

I turned, my body moving on instinct, stumbling toward her room. My footsteps felt heavy, almost sinking into the floor. The air grew colder with every step.

I pushed open her door.

At first, I thought she was asleep—curled up under her blanket, her small shape trembling slightly. But something was wrong with her breathing. It was too deep. Too slow.

“Clara?” I whispered, kneeling beside her bed.

She turned her head slowly. Her skin was pale, waxy. Her lips moved, trembling.

“Daddy?” she said, but her voice wasn’t her own. It was too low. Distorted. Like someone speaking through her.

My stomach dropped.

“Baby... it’s okay,” I said softly, trying to hide the fear in my voice. “It’s me, Dad. You’re safe.”

Her lips twitched into a small, strange smile.

“You’re next,” the voice said—deeper this time, colder.

I froze.

“What—”

Her body started to shift. Her skin rippled like water. The air shimmered around her. I reached out, but my hand passed through her arm—it was like smoke, fading away before my eyes.

“Clara!” I shouted, panic seizing me as her body began to break apart, piece by piece, dissolving into fine black dust that swirled in the air like ashes.

“No! No!” My voice cracked as I reached out, grabbing at nothing.

The dust floated upward, forming a shape, then scattering again. The room grew dark—unnaturally dark, like something was sucking the light out of the air. The temperature dropped. My breath came out in white puffs.

Then I heard it—coming from the pile of dust. A whisper, low and metallic, dragging across the air like rusted blades.

“We know you.”

The whisper wasn’t outside—it was inside my head.

Something reached out from the dust—an arm, pale and twisted, jointed wrong, like bone and wire fused together. It clawed at the air, dragging itself toward me.

I tried to scream, but my voice caught. My throat burned.

Then everything went black.