On the morning of March 30, in the quiet town of Rosemary, a gentle mist after the rain hung over the cobblestone-wet streets.
Dr. Albero Sanolan lived a grateful life with his small yet tightly-knit family. His family included his mother, father, newly married wife, and in-laws. It was a home filled with warmth, gratitude, and companionship.
A dedicated ophthalmologist by profession, Albero had spent his entire life in Rosemary—his birthplace, his sanctuary, and the center of everything he held dear. He was a disciplined man and had many family responsibilities upon him. Each morning, at precisely nine, he arrived at his clinic. Before leaving for his clinic at the end of the street, he placed a gentle kiss on his loving wife's forehead—a quiet beauty of love that had become second nature to him. His kindness and integrity earned him the respect of all who knew him.
Upon reaching his clinic, he noticed an elderly man patiently sitting outside on a public bench, his hands folded over his old long stick. His name was Muhammad Ishaq, a former patient of his. As Albero approached the door of the clinic, the old man stood up and greeted him warmly with a smile. Albero greeted him back. Then he unlocked the clinic's door and went inside. He requested the elderly man to wait a little longer, before he tidied the place. With no complaint, the gentleman nodded and sat back down. Till then, the clinic's nurse arrived. It was a young boy named Jonas, of age no more than thirteen. Jonas's eyes held a quiet desperation. His parents were both gravely ill, requiring expensive treatment, but he had no means to support them. Jonas's pain and helplessness moved Albero's heart. To help the poor child, he offered him a role as a nurse at the clinic, ensuring he would earn a fair wage.
The boy, overwhelmed with gratitude, when he first received his wage of the month, had clung to the doctor and cried, shedding tears of gratitude. Albero wiped his tears, and the kid returned to work the next day with a quiet, satisfying smile that genuinely melted the doctor's heart.
Not once did Dr. Albero scold him for any mistakes, nor did he overburden him with tasks. The boy began tidying the clinic the moment he stepped inside.
Albero prepared the room and beckoned the elderly man inside. He got up with deliberate movements, pressing his weight on the stick, and went inside. Following Albero's instructions, he pulled out a chair, settled into it, and began speaking, "Doctor, I had come to you before, regarding my friend. You tested my eyes and prescribed me these glasses. I don't quite recognize the name, and it was really helpful. I could read books and see tiny letters clearly. But suddenly, once again, after nearly eight or nine long months, my sight has begun to dull once again."
Dr. Albero listened intently while maintaining his usual composure, meticulously examining the patient's pupils, assessing their dilation and responsiveness. He was afraid that the old man had either presbyopia or astigmatism, since these cases were common at that time period. He called Jonas and told him to bring the whiteboard. Without a question, Jonas retrieved a whiteboard on which words were inscribed in varying letter sizes, ranging from the minuscule to the boldly prominent.
"Sit at a distance and read these aloud," Albero instructed the old man. The elderly man turned to the board, squinted, struggling to see the words. He could barely discern the letters at 72pt and 100pt, whereas, but according to the previous test—during his last visit, he had managed to read even the 48pt size text without difficulty. Dr. Albero sighed inwardly, his suspicions confirmed. "You have presbyopia," he informed the elderly man with a grave yet gentle tone. "It's a common affliction among individuals aged fifty to sixty. And unfortunately, much like the graying of hair or the frailty of bones, it is an inevitable consequence of aging. Your condition has progressed, and we'll need to adjust your prescription." The doctor scribbled a new prescription for bifocal lenses, known as such, altering the lens power to accommodate the deterioration.
The old man made a long face in dissatisfaction.
"The human eye is among the most delicate of all bodily organs; its tissues are exceptionally soft and fragile," Albero said upon seeing him unsatisfied. "Much like our inability to permanently halt the progression of age, certain conditions—such as this—or myopia, hyperopia, or astigmatism—can only be managed or cured by advanced surgeries but cannot be cured permanently. Moreover, our country lacks advanced surgical equipment of sufficient quality to provide an alternative solution. And because of the war, the situation has worsened."
The elderly man absorbed his words with quiet acceptance, nodding as understanding settled upon him. "I understand, Doctor," he smiled, and with a respectful nod, he took his leave. Dr. Albero watched him go, a lingering sense of melancholy pooling in his chest. He sighed and thought, "He likely does not trust me, and most likely he won't return anymore."
He spun his head round in a circle, then glanced at Jonas while reclining in his chair. Looking more closely, he noticed a fresh wound adorning Jonas's ear. His brows furrowed in concern.
He walked to him and grabbed his ear gently. "Have you been fighting?" he inquired, yet he didn't act unkindly. Jonas, occupied with meticulously cleaning the surgical equipment, did not immediately respond. He scratched his eyebrows and denied it. But Albero was not convinced. He looked at the wound more closely. It was fresh and had a little blood stuck to it. Without a single word, he took antiseptic and bandages from the medicine shelf, then carefully cleaned the injury with fatherly care, ensuring the boy felt as little pain as possible.
"This is not a serious injury, but you should be more careful," he said, rubbing the dirty, sticky skin, dabbing the area gently. Jonas said nothing but blushed in gratitude. At that moment, the rhythmic sound of knuckles rapped against the door. A soft cough followed before a familiar voice chimed in. "How wholesome, Dr. Albero," his wife, Misha, mused as she stepped inside the clinic, her lips curling into an amused smile. "You always treat children with such tenderness, and yet when I ask for one of our own, you refuse. That's quite rude, don't you think?"
She strode toward him, grasped his tie, and pulled him closer—so close that their lips nearly touched.
Albero's whole body shook, his composure slipping into mild embarrassment. Jonas averted his eyes, tried to focus on his work, yet was distracted.
Albero pushed her back with a gentle touch. "Didn't I tell you not to flirt with me at my clinic?"
"Even in anger, you touch me so gently, oh! My dear husband." His wife only loved to discomfort him. She placed a neatly wrapped tiffin to his chest. "You must be hungry. Here's your breakfast; you left it on the table. And as your responsible and caring wife, I am really heartbroken. And when you return home, I expect a handwritten apology letter on scented paper with your expensive pen. No excuses. Otherwise," she wrapped her hands around him and whispered, "tonight's punishment will be far more extreme than the last time…" She playfully bit his left ear and left.
Dr. Albero was momentarily stunned, his body temperature rose, while Jonas failed to pretend.
Albero, slightly exasperated, pinched Jonas's waist. Jonas yelped, squirming away with a fit of uncontrollable giggles. He was really ticklish, and even the slightest prod would send him into a frenzy.
Albero never ate breakfast, lunch, or snacks alone—he needed a partner to share with. He gave more than two pieces of toasted bread and an egg to Jonas. However, when it came to sweets, he was far less generous, often hiding them away for himself solely.
As the evening settled and the last of his appointments concluded, he closed the clinic at five. On his way home, he saw a group of children playing cricket in a congested alleyway. A flicker of nostalgia hit him. "Young those days!" he thought and, approaching them, wondered if he could just hit a single shot. "May I take a single shot?"
The children exchanged glances with each other and requested, "Join us for a match, Doctor! We're one player short," they insisted, grabbing his arms.
Albero spent time in a carefree five-over match. From that day onward, it became a routine; every evening, he would play cricket with them.
At ten to seven, he returned home, but realized his parents and in-laws had gone somewhere. He tried calling his mother-in-law's residence, but no one answered.
Before he could contemplate further, someone whistled from behind. Turning, he found his wife standing behind him, clad in nothing but a soft cotton robe. She was wet and had worn nothing inside.
"Hey darling! I was in the shower," she purred. "Our parents won't be back until tomorrow. I sent them to their houses." Naive as ever, Dr. Albero frowned, not realizing why.
His wife stepped closer, her fingers curling around his wrist as she pushed him backward into the bedroom. "You're so innocent, still unaware of what's going to happen to you? I recall telling you," she whispered, "that your punishment tonight would be really hard." Before he could utter a word, she pushed him onto the bed, straddling him with predatory ease. "Where is my apology letter, dear husband?"
Dr. Albero stiffened. She leaned in, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his pants. "You never learn, do you? I guess you want to get devoured after all. Tonight," she whispered, pressing her body on top of him, "you will learn your lesson really hard."
With a sultry chuckle, she pulled the strings of her robe, letting the fabric slip away, and turned the lights off—to set the mood…