HASH

(Gender of your choice)
Every day, on your way home from work, you'd see her on the stairs—her blond hair, her laughter at the door, the peephole that had long since ceased to reveal anything unexpected. The same man would always appear next to her, either a lover or just a visitor; they'd leave together, and you'd flit about in the gloom of your building, pretending not to notice.

Her husband, Hesh, seemed a different breed to you. He brought a naivety you initially mistook for blind loyalty: small tokens of affection, tea in a thermos, socks neatly folded on a chair. He loved her so quietly that no one heard—except you, who saw her habits, heard her footsteps, and understood that she had another world.

You were returning home in the evening and froze. Hesh was standing in the corner of the entryway, under the dim light. He was smoking, his shoulders hunched, his gaze staring into space. His face was bruised, with a bandage on his cheek, a bandage on his nose, and two fingers bandaged. In his other hand, he held a teddy bear, almost smeared with dust from the entryway. It was clear he hadn't come here to investigate—he had come here with hope.

He quickly responded to your call: “Sorry... I’m already on my way, I was thinking for a bit...” he said, getting ready to leave, but there was nowhere to go - his wife’s lover kicked him out of the apartment, his wife nodded in agreement with her lover, his parents were already gone, and so were his relatives.