Are demons the only beings capable of wrongdoing?
People like to believe so. It makes the world easier to understand. If evil belongs only to monsters, then humans can pretend they are innocent by default. Crime is labeled as evil, and where evil exists, people cling to the hope that justice will inevitably follow. It is a comforting belief—one that thrives in fairy tales, legends, and neatly written histories.
But reality is far crueler.
Humans are not creatures of light alone. Sometimes, they choose to live in darkness. Sometimes, they build homes there.
That is how I sit now—alone in a small wooden house at the edge of the countryside, illuminated by nothing more than a narrow window carved into the wall. The light that slips through it is thin and weak, as if even the sun hesitates to reach me. Age presses heavily upon my bones. My hands tremble when I lift them. My breathing is slow, uneven, as though each breath must be negotiated with time itself.
I have witnessed the worst of humanity. I have seen men justify slaughter with beautiful words and commit atrocities with steady hands. I have also seen fleeting moments of kindness—fragile, rare sparks that vanish as quickly as they appear. Yet I no longer wish to drown myself in memories. Memories have teeth. They bite harder the older you grow.
Now, I live quietly.
Children's laughter echoes through the fields outside. My grandchildren run freely beneath the open sky, their feet unburdened by guilt, their eyes untouched by sin. They know nothing of the man I once was. To them, I am only a frail old figure who smiles softly and forgets names from time to time.
Yes, I am old.
I forget to take my medicine on time. Some days, I forget whether I have eaten. I no longer have hobbies to distract myself—no books I can finish, no crafts my fingers can manage. I simply sit and watch my body wrinkle toward nothingness while the world moves forward without me. Seasons pass. Autumn arrives again, its warmth fading sooner than I expect, its wind carrying the scent of decay.
I lived my life with dignity—or at least, that was never my intention.
Whether I succeeded or failed, I do not know. Few would care enough to judge me honestly. But I care. Because I made a promise once. A foolish promise, perhaps. A promise to someone long gone.
To keep living.
My son is a farmer now. He wakes before dawn, works until sunset, and sleeps without fear. He lives peacefully with his wife and their two children. He has never asked about my past, and I have never offered it. Some truths rot everything they touch.
Inside my room, darkness gathers in the corners, pressing inward as if trying to claim the space entirely. Yet the narrow window still allows light to enter—stubborn and unwavering. It is small, but it exists. Perhaps that alone is enough.
Then—footsteps.
They are distant at first. Gravel crunches beneath tires. A car engine idles, then dies. A door slams shut.
Someone is here.
Knock. Knock.
The front door opens.
"Yes? Who are you?" my son asks, his voice cautious.
A young woman stands outside, wearing formal dress with a bag on her shoulder. Her posture is straight, her expression calm, controlled. She carries herself like someone who has already decided not to be afraid.
"My name is Grace Will Copper," she says. "I'm a journalist. I've come to speak with Mr. Aden Walker."
"Aden… Walker?" My son stiffens, as though the name itself has weight. "What business do you have with my father?"
"I only wish to hear his story."
"What story?" His voice sharpens. "My father is just an old man. An ordinary person."
Grace's eyes do not waver. "Then why didn't he tell you about the man he once befriended—a criminal responsible for killing hundreds and burning down the largest conglomerate building in the city?"
The words strike like a blade.
My son steps forward, anger flashing across his face. He shoves her back without restraint.
"Leave."
"I don't want trouble," Grace says quickly, steady despite the hostility. "I only want the truth."
Before the situation can spiral further, another voice cuts in.
"Richard, stop."
My daughter-in-law steps between them. Her expression is conflicted—fear mixed with something closer to curiosity.
She turns to Grace. "There is something our father never told us. Perhaps… perhaps he wants to speak now."
She gestures toward the house. "Please come in. I'm Alice Walker. This is my husband, Richard."
Grace hesitates only a moment before stepping inside.
Down the hallway, Richard approaches my door. His knock is softer than the one at the front.
"There's a journalist here," he says carefully. "She wants to ask about… an incident."
I stare out the window, watching dust dance in the light. My reflection is faint—barely recognizable. Silence stretches between us. The past stirs, restless, clawing its way upward after decades of burial.
Finally, I speak.
"Let her come."
Richard freezes—not in fear, but disbelief. In all his life, I had never spoken of the past. Not once.
He leaves the room and tells Grace to enter alone. When Alice tries to follow, he stops her, holding her hand tightly.
"Let them talk," he says. His shoulders sag, his eyes distant.
Grace enters.
An old man sits alone at a table.
For a brief moment, she hesitates. Then I gesture toward the chair across from me.
"Please."
She sits.
"My name is Grace Will Copper," she says again. "I'm here to ask about the massacre—the burning of people and buildings on August 19, XXXX."
Her gaze locks onto mine.
"So tell me—
was he a hero…
or a villain?"
A bitter breath escapes my lungs.
"That's not how I remember him," I say quietly. "To me, he was the worst criminal imaginable—someone who should have died long ago… or perhaps never existed at all."
"You speak of him with hatred," Grace says. "Or should I call him your brother?"
I look up. Our eyes meet.
"I never saw him as my own," I reply. "I wish I had never met him."
"This much hatred," she presses, "is that why you locked yourself away in this room for decades?"
My voice trembles. "Living became another prison. Not dying is my greatest regret. I was too afraid to end it myself."
Silence fills the room.
Grace exhales slowly. "Then, Mr. Aden, allow me to hear the story behind that tragedy. Let the world know the truth—the story that was never told."
The light from the window flickers.
And at last, the past begins to speak.