Zonza stumbled back into his home, exhausted… but when he pushed the door open—
The house was too quiet.
His wife lay still on the bed—her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes gently closed, as if sleeping.
But she was not breathing.
Zonza froze. No words. No tears. Just silence.
Zonza (voice cracking): "...No."
He dropped to his knees.
His fingers shook as they reached for her hand—cold.
Completely cold.
Zonza: "No… no. No. No. NO!"
His scream tore through the empty walls.
He slammed his forehead against the floor—
THUD.
Again—
THUD.
And again—
THUD.
Until blood streaked down his face.
Zonza (shaking, choking): "Why me!? What did I do!? Why am I so useless!?"
His breath turned to sobs—broken, painful, raw.
Zonza: "Why… why did everything… get taken from me…?"
He collapsed forward, his hands weak, his voice barely a whisper.
Zonza: "I… I should just die…"
His hand reached for a knife beside the broken table.
His grip tightened.
But before the blade could touch his throat—
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Man (softly, tiredly): "What good will dying do, my friend…"
Zonza didn't look up. His voice was gone.
Zonza (whispering): "Please… Just let me go… I have nothing left…"
Man: "If you die… you can never avenge them."
The room hung silent.
Man: "You must live. If not for yourself… then for the promise of revenge."
Zonza's grip loosened.
The knife dropped.
And in that silence—
A new kind of pain was born.