“You can’t even walk!” He sneered.
“Why are you here? Your life is over. I… I’ve moved on.”
“Do you want it dramatic, literary, cinematic…?”
Elena said nothing. She stared at them—him, anxious and sweating; her, serene and cold as a hospital ward.
“So… why are you here?” Her voice was flat, lifeless.
“I’d rather you hear it from me first. We’re moving… into the apartment. Your apartment. Well… ours, once. But I can’t…” He gestured downward, helpless.
Elena calmly slid a thin file across the table. “Here. Everything’s inside.”
A will. Documents transferring ownership. “We need a start. I’m done.”
“You’re giving us the house?” he asked, stunned. The landlady hovered. “Just like that?”
“Yes. It’s hers. I’m onto other things.”
He laughed arrogantly—then froze. “Other things? You? You can’t walk!”
Elena closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she removed her blanket, undid her cane, and stood.
One step. Another. Her footfalls were faint yet heavier than any words spoken.
“I was in an accident, not imprisoned,” she said evenly. “But it doesn’t matter now.”
“How can you—?” he spluttered. “The doctors… you said—”
“You know what you needed: time, rest, distance. You gave them to me—unintentionally.”
She walked to the door, paused, and turned. Voice clear as a bell: “You took my home. I took your freedom.”
“What?” he panicked. “What do you mean?”
Elena smiled, strained: “Read the file. Especially the last page.”
She left, her steps slow but certain. Silence exploded behind her.
The man trembled opening the file. He flipped to the final page—pale.
There it was: “Transfer of ownership takes effect only if the new owner accepts sole custody of a child born from an affair.”
He looked up at her. “You didn’t mention a child.”
She lowered her eyes, swallowing. “Because…” she whispered, “…it’s not yours.”
A single sound cracked the silence: the tapping of Elena’s cane receding away.