In Country Park, beneath the faded hues of an autumn sky, an old man sat alone on a weathered bench. His eyes, dulled by age and pain, followed the gentle sway of the trees and the distant laughter of children. Once, that sound had been music to his ears—now, it pierced like a knife. Each laugh echoed memories of joy long lost.
He felt it again—a tightening in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. A reminder of time's cruelty.
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, rough and hollow.
"To hell with it all... you damned demons..." he muttered under his breath.
The world had abandoned him. No pity. No redemption.
Years ago, he had dared to dream—a vision of building the finest resort in the nation. Not merely a palace of luxury, but a haven of joy, connection, and serenity. For decades, he labored, giving his heart and soul. Through tireless effort and countless sacrifices, he rose from nothing, and his name became revered in the hospitality industry.
The resort became a symbol. His symbol. A beacon of what sheer will could achieve.
But success breeds envy.
From the shadows, a rival struck. Ruthless, calculated. He orchestrated the man's downfall like a masterful composer, crafting a symphony of ruin. False lawsuits, bribed officials, sabotaged deals—every weapon was used. Government investigations followed. Fines. Seizures. And overnight, everything fell apart.
To pay restitution for a scandal he never committed, he was forced to sell everything—his land, his buildings, his legacy.
The weight of shame and failure shifted to his only son—a bright, dutiful boy who took over management when the old man could no longer bear the burden. But the wolves were already at the door. Debts surged. Sleepless nights blurred into one another.
The young man collapsed, heart failing under the crushing pressure. He never reached thirty.
His daughters, once bright with laughter, found their worlds destroyed. Their husbands abandoned them at the first whisper of scandal. One died in a car crash—a hit-and-run that no one solved. The other... she simply faded away, swallowed by grief. Her final letter never blamed him, but he blamed himself every single day.
Now, in his early seventies, he was a ghost—no family, no wealth, no name worth remembering. Only pain, regret, and questions that would never be answered.
He leaned forward, breath shallow, as his fingers clutched his chest. Leaves rustled softly around him, and for a moment, he thought he might finally die. And perhaps, he welcomed it.