Rosie met her neighbour on the stairs.
An older woman. Kind eyes. Curious in a harmless way.
“Settled in?” she asked.
Rosie smiled immediately. Too quickly.
“Yes. It’s… peaceful.”
The woman hesitated. “I heard shouting the other night.”
Rosie’s smile didn’t fade.
“Oh—Durin gets loud when he’s tired. Work stress.”
A soft laugh. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
The words came easily.
They always did.
She had practised them for years.
The neighbour nodded, relieved. “Men,” she said, sympathetically.
Rosie agreed.
As they parted, something unseen lingered on the stairwell—
listening not to the lie, but to the ease with which it was spoken.
Arav felt it settle in his chest.
This was not ignorance.
This was training.
---
Durin grew comfortable after that.
Comfortable enough to stop hiding his phone.
Comfortable enough to leave late and return later.
Comfortable enough to correct her in front of others.
“You don’t remember things properly,” he said once, smiling like a joke.
Rosie laughed with him.
Her hands stayed folded tightly in her lap.
At home, he spoke more freely.
About money.
About the house.
About how lucky they were.
“You don’t understand these things,” he told her casually. “Leave it to me.”
She nodded.
Always nodded.
---
One evening, she sat alone on the bed, folding laundry.
Her chest felt tight in that familiar, aching way. She pressed her palm there unconsciously, trying to breathe through it.
The room felt… steadier.
Not warmer.
Just quieter.
The light didn’t flicker.
The door didn’t creak.
But the weight in her chest eased slightly, like someone sitting nearby had shifted closer—not touching, not intruding.
Rosie frowned.
She shook her head once.
“Get a grip,” she whispered.
Arav stood in the corner, fists clenched, unmoving.
He wanted to touch her hair.
Wanted to kneel in front of her.
Wanted to tell her she wasn’t wrong.
He did none of it.
Instead, the air held still.
Letting her breathe.
---
That night, Durin slept easily.
Rosie lay awake.
Arav watched her stare into the dark, eyes open far too long.
He spoke for the first time since his death.
Not to her.
To himself.
> “I love her,” he said quietly.
The words felt old the moment they left him.
“And she doesn’t know how to be loved.”
The house absorbed the sound like a vow.
---
In the morning, Durin stood by the window, papers in his hand.
Property documents.
He read them carefully, lips pressed together in thought.
Rosie passed behind him, carrying tea.
He turned slightly, shielding the pages from her view.
She didn’t notice.
Or pretended not to.
The camera—if there were one—would freeze there:
Durin’s fingers tightening around the paper.
A corner marked.
A signature line circled faintly in pen.
Intent, waiting.
---
End of Episode 5
Bye see ya in the next one
it's just starting
it's my beginning I'm a learning I hope. So .
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