It had been almost fourteen years since Simon’s world collapsed into permanent darkness.
Fourteen years ago, a single phone call had changed everything. His wife Linda and their twelve-year-old son Sam had died in a brutal car accident. Simon survived—but survival came at a cruel cost. The injuries damaged his eyesight irreversibly, leaving him partially blind and painfully allergic to sunlight. What hurt more than his physical condition was the emptiness that followed. His home, once filled with laughter, arguments over bedtime, and the sweet smell of cakes from Linda’s shop, became a silent tomb of memories.
In the early months after the tragedy, friends, colleagues, and a few family members stood by him. They helped him grieve, supported him through surgeries and therapy, and tried to pull him back into life. But grief is uncomfortable to watch, and time moves faster for those who are not broken. Slowly, one by one, people drifted away—busy with their own lives, their own happiness. Simon was left behind, alone in his giant cottage, learning to exist without light, without purpose, without hope.
The sunlight affected his brain badly. Doctors suggested it could be psychological trauma mixed with physical damage. Whatever the reason, Simon became terrified of daylight. He sealed himself inside the house, curtains drawn permanently, windows shut, doors rarely opened. Darkness became his shelter. The outside world no longer existed for him.
He ordered groceries and essentials through calls or online orders. A wooden box sat outside a small side window. Delivery boys would ring the bell, place the items in the box, and leave. Only then would Simon open the small window and pull the box inside. No human contact. No questions. No sympathy.
Neighbors whispered. Rumors spread. Some said the man was mad, others said the house was haunted. No one ever saw Simon. No lights were switched on. No garbage bins were placed outside. No windows opened—not even for air.
Inside, the cottage was a nightmare.
Dirty carpets soaked with years of neglect. Dust-coated furniture. Clothes thrown around the bedroom floor. Unwashed crockery stacked dangerously in the kitchen. Cockroaches ruled the countertops. The stench of decay clung to the walls. Simon no longer noticed. His senses had surrendered long ago.
One night, after a long time, Simon stood in front of his dressing-table mirror. Through his blurred vision, he barely recognized the man staring back within him. Grey hair hung lifelessly over his face. A long, untrimmed white beard covered his chest. His clothes were filthy, wrinkled, and smelled unbearable—even to him. It struck him suddenly that he hadn’t bathed in almost a year.
There was a time when Simon had been the exact opposite.
An ex-military chief, disciplined to the second, trained to value order, cleanliness, and precision. Even after retirement, he had kept himself active by helping Linda run her cake shop. Life had been simple, structured, meaningful. After the accident, he closed the shop forever. The ovens went cold. The laughter disappeared.
Now, Simon could not tell day from night. Seasons passed unnoticed. Festivals came and went without candles or prayers. Yet, strangely, he never forgot three dates—his wedding anniversary, Linda’s birthday, and his son’s birthday. On those days alone, he forced himself to bathe, brush his teeth, wear clean clothes, and follow some order, as if honoring ghosts who still lived within him.
That night was Sam’s birthday.
As always, Simon waited until late night and ordered Sam’s favorite pizza from the same shop they used to visit together. The delivery took longer than usual.
When the doorbell rang, Simon opened the door instantly.
“Why so late?” he snapped. “I ordered long back.”
The young delivery boy stammered, “Sorry, sir. I joined recently. I got confused with the location.”
As he stood there, the boy felt an unbearable foul smell coming from inside. His eyes widened at the sight of the messy, dark interior. Simon paid him and tipped him generously—far more than expected. Shocked but grateful, the boy left quickly.
Outside the gate stood a little boy, shivering in the cold. His clothes were torn, dirty, and wet. His cheeks were hollow, eyes sunken with hunger. He ran to the delivery boy and begged for food.
The delivery boy stepped back in disgust. “Stay away. You smell horrible. Why don’t you people keep yourself clean?” he scolded and walked away.
Tears rolled down the child’s face.
His eyes then fell on Simon’s cottage. He assumed the delivery man had come from there. Perhaps food existed inside. Driven by hunger, the boy jumped over the gate and threw a stone at the large window. The glass shattered silently into the darkness.
Inside, the boy felt confused by the vastness of the house. The smell made him gag. “Such a big house, but worse than a beggar’s hut,” he murmured while stumbling toward what he guessed was the kitchen.
Simon heard it.
His military-trained ears sharpened instantly. Someone was inside the house. A thief. Fear and anger surged together. He searched for his gun and finally found it on a dusty shelf.
Following the sound of footsteps, Simon reached the kitchen. The boy froze when he saw a tall shadow holding a gun.
“Please don’t kill me!” the boy cried, falling to the floor. “I haven’t come to steal. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten for days.”
The words pierced Simon’s heart.
He lowered the gun.
Moving closer, Simon noticed the boy’s trembling body and wet clothes. Something inside him softened—something long dead stirred faintly. He brought out his son’s old clothes and handed them to the boy. Then he served him hot coffee and pizza.
The boy ate like he hadn’t seen food in years.
When he finished, he folded his hands. “Thank you, sir. May I go now?”
“Where will you go?” Simon asked quietly.
“I live on the streets. My parents died. I have no one.”
Simon paused, then said, “You can stay here… if you want. I am alone too.”
The boy hesitated, then nodded.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
Simon noticed changes—inside himself and inside the house. The boy’s laughter echoed faintly in the corridors. Simon found himself talking again. Caring again. The boy reminded him painfully of his son. Eventually, he named him Sam.
Simon sent him to school. He cleaned the house slowly, one corner at a time. Curtains were opened slightly. Sunlight touched the walls again.
For the first time in fourteen years, darkness loosened its grip.
Simon had found his family again—not by blood, but by fate.
And so, the man allergic to sunlight learned once more to live in its warmth.
**The End**
