"You've got 5 minutes left—hurry!" said my wife, frustrated. Within 5 minutes she was in my room, glaring intensely. The dim light casted sharp shadows across her face. Her arms were crossed, her jaw tight. I could hear my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. I tried to act patient, but in the blink of an eye I abandoned that idea. Apologizing was safer—as it always had been. Being late had become my hobby ever since I retired from my previous job, but my wife never managed to adapt to it.
As for today the reason for chaos in my house was just not my habit but- an invitation. It reached my doorstep on 10th July on a delightful evening.
I was sitting on a sofa, positioned right in front of a lovely framed photo of my family, waiting for the snacks that were being prepared by my wife. The sight of the photo, along with the gentle breeze stirring the air and carrying the scent of blooming flowers, filled my heart with an unusual sense of peace. I was thinking about my past suddenly remembered the saying which goes, "Every beginning has an end, and every end has a new beginning."
In the middle of all this, I suddenly heard a sound. It was a knock. I moved towards the door. The more I stepped towards it, the louder it became: "Knock! Knock! Knock!". As I was about to open the door, the knocking suddenly stopped.
As I pushed the door open, a slow creak echoed through the air. There was no one at the doorstep. The cold tiles sent a sharp chill through my bare foot. And there it was—a letter lying silently on the floor. In that moment, my imagination surged forward, no longer restrained—it took control, shaping reality itself.
Maybe it was a postman, who was in hurry. That's why he was beating on the door like a drum, impatiently. Perhaps he was a poor man, one for whom time was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand—impossible to grasp, impossible to reclaim.
When I read the letter, I realized it was from a widely renowned TV news channel—The Headline Hub. In that letter, it was written that:
THE HEADLINE HUB
Level 6/53 Berry Street, North Sydney,
New South Wales
10TH JULY 1972
To: Aiden Anderson
Sector-21 Dawn Street, North Sydney,
New south Wales
Subject: Exclusive Interview Invitation – The Unsolved Case That Was Almost Closed
Dear sir,
We hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. At THE HEADLINE HUB, we are deeply committed to bringing insightful stories to the public, especially those that shape investigations and justice in our society. Your last case, THE DEAD MOUNTAIN, captured public attention with its intricacies and near resolution. As someone who was exceptionally close to solving it, yet faced unforeseen challenges, your perspective holds immense value. We would be honored to invite you for an exclusive interview on 15TH July on 06:00 PM, where you can share your insights, reflect on the case's complexities, and discuss what truly transpired. This is an opportunity to bring the truth to light and offer viewers a deeper understanding of the dedication behind investigative work. The interview will take place at Level 6/53 Berry Street, North Sydney, New South Wales 2060 Phone: (02) 9261 1930, and our team will ensure a seamless experience for you. If you have any preferred format or topics you wish to highlight, we would be glad to accommodate them. Please confirm your availability at your earliest convenience.
Best Regards,
Loussac Weinstein
Editor
THE HEADLINE HUB
I was surprised and shocked at the same time. This letter somehow triggered my trauma—The Dead Mountain. This was the first and only case I was not able to solve—a wound in my record that refused to heal. I had been in the field of solving such cases from a very early age and had solved many that seemed impossible.
I was so close, about to solve this case, but something unpredictable happened. That unpredictability proved to be a disaster and changed my life so profoundly that I decided to retire from my job. What happened on that mountain remains a mystery to me as well as to the world. The shadow of regrets still hovered over me. And now this letter? This invitation?
It was not just an invitation. It was a challenge. Was I ready to face it? All these thoughts were briefing through my mind. I was engulfed in an ocean of deep thoughts, wandering here and there in search of something that could ease my anxious mind and restore the unusual peace that had filled my heart twenty minutes ago.
In this hectic situation, my wife's voice ringed through my ears. Her voice acted like a lifeguard pulling me out of the ocean of despair. "Honey, the snacks are ready. Come here and have a taste of them," said my wife in a lovely manner. I shook off the weight of my dilemma and stepped back into reality. The first thing I saw after returning to reality was my wife. She was standing on the balcony near the sofa, waiting for me to join her.
At that moment, she looked even prettier than before. Of course, she had always been beautiful—it is a universal truth I have believed since the day I first saw her, at that very moment she seemed like a moon in a dark night.
That moment made me realize she wasn't just someone in my life—she was the source of my happiness, the quiet force behind every smile. If it hadn't been for her, I would never have been able to recover from the wounds left by that case.
"Must you wait for an invitation to join?" my wife teased, her smile holding both mischief and affection. "There's no need for that, my love," I said, my mind light and free, drawn only to her warmth. I went to the sofa and immersed myself in the delightful aroma of freshly made snacks, their rich scent wrapping around me. "Are you going to fill your tummy just with the aroma? Come on, try some and tell me how it tastes," said my wife.
"Taste! do I really have to taste it? No, I can't do that. It can't be," I said to myself. I lacked the courage to voice such words to my wife—held back by an unspoken fear." Why are you hesitating? Come on, you will be the first to taste it, and then our lovely son Leo. OK, honey," said my wife fiercely.
Yes, I have a son named Leo with my wife, Mrs. Bella Anderson, and now he's six years old. That unspoken fear again took hold, and I took a bite of the snack." How is it?" my wife asked. "It's too good, darling. This snack is deliciously delicious. Your cooking skills are enough to beat a five-star chef," I replied.
"Oh, come on, it's not that good. You are too much," she said proudly.
My wife was right—the snack was awfully awful. But she did have a special ability to make food smell so aromatic that one might fall for her trick. Of course, it was the expertise from her last job that made her special.
Luckily, my son was not at home at that time, so he saved himself from this disaster. It's not that my wife is a bad cook—she's particularly bad at snack-like things. God knows why. When my wife tasted it, she found it so terrible that she escorted it straight to the dustbin, which was just below the fridge near the dining table.
It was the perfect time to discuss that "Invitation." I told her that I had something to share. "And what is it about?" my wife asked. Both of us sat on that cozy sofa; by then it was eight o'clock. The sky stretched endlessly above, deep and twinkling with distant stars. A gentle breeze drifted through the air, and all of it together made me feel so good that I didn't want to spoil the moment with the ugly news of the Invitation—but I told her anyway. Surprisingly, she was not shocked. But why?