CHAPTER 64: NEW STORIES CAN BE POURED OUT

After a few minutes, the man finally spoke. His voice was rough, like it came from a throat strained too far.

"Th-thank you... son... for helping me..."

Alaric turned toward him, listening intently.

"I... I’m sorry... for being a burden."

The man’s words came from a place of deep awareness. He *knew* he had been difficult to assist. His body, no longer as strong as it once was, made everything harder for himself and for others. But in his face was also a quiet gratitude.

Alaric shook his head gently. His voice was calm.

"Please, don’t say that. If I were in your shoes, I’d hope someone would stop and help me too."

The older man said nothing, but something in his posture softened. His unease dulled by those few simple words.

Still, Alaric’s curiosity lingered. It eventually found its way into a question, cautiously voiced.

"Sir, I don’t mean to pry... but how did this happen? Why were you trying to go down the stairs on your own? And if you don’t mind me asking, what brought you here today, in this condition?"

Alaric’s tone was soft, respectful. He didn’t want to seem intrusive. He simply needed to understand. The image of this man, alone on the staircase with no one in sight, had left a mark that wouldn’t easily fade.

The old man didn’t respond right away. His eyes drifted again. Somewhere far beyond the corridor in front of them. Alaric could tell he’d heard every word. But there was a pause. A long one. A kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full of something waiting to be said.

Then, finally, the man inhaled deeply. The kind of breath someone takes when they know what they’re about to say will cost something.

"I used to teach here," he began, voice still fragile but a bit steadier now. "Years ago. Before you were probably even born."

Alaric said nothing, letting the silence give the old man space to continue.

"This place... it used to be my second home. I gave everything to this campus. My energy, my youth, my voice... I taught literature. Poetry, mostly." He smiled faintly, the kind that comes with both fondness and pain. "But after I retired, I stopped coming. It wasn’t the same anymore. New people, new faces. I didn’t think I belonged."

Alaric listened, his expression unmoving but attentive.

"Today..." the man continued, "today was the first time I tried coming back. There was supposed to be a small alumni gathering. Nothing big. Just a few former staff and old students, upstairs in one of the halls."

He stopped, his breath catching slightly. "But I was late. The elevator near the west wing wasn’t working. I thought I could manage the stairs, slowly. I’ve done worse before. But halfway down..."

He swallowed hard. "My hand slipped. And gravity did the rest."

Alaric felt a tightness in his chest. The mental image was vivid now. A man trying to reach a piece of his past, only to be thrown down by the very place he once called home.

"No one saw you?" Alaric asked, glancing around, still unable to believe the man had been alone this whole time.

The old man gave a dry laugh. "They had all gone in. The hallway was empty. I thought I could catch up without needing to call anyone."

"And now?" Alaric asked. "Should I call someone for you? The alumni office? Or maybe campus security?"

The man shook his head gently. "No. Please. I just... need a little rest. Then I’ll be fine."

Alaric didn’t argue. He could see the man’s pride was still intact, despite everything. Instead, he just nodded.

"I’ll stay with you until you feel ready," he said simply.

That earned him another faint smile. Not the kind that came easily. But one of quiet appreciation. One that said: thank you for seeing me.

For a while, neither of them said anything more. The corridor around them slowly returned to its stillness. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the tiled floor. From a distance, voices rose and fell, but here, in this shaded corner of Westminster, it was just the two of them.

And though they came from completely different worlds, one young and in his prime. The other old and far past it something unspoken passed between them.

A shared understanding.

A moment of human connection that had nothing to do with victory or fame, but everything to do with presence, and kindness, and simply showing up when it mattered most.

Alaric remained silent, listening intently, restraining himself from interrupting. He stared straight ahead, occasionally glancing down at the tiled corridor floor as if searching for the right words.

The man finally began to speak, his voice hoarse.

"My life used to be... happy... and comfortable," he said, holding back a sob that was rising in his chest. "My family was well-off, prosperous. I sent my children to the best schools, even though they were expensive. I gave them everything I possibly could."

Alaric nodded, still letting the man speak. He didn’t want to interject, sensing how fragile the man’s voice was. Fragile not just from the fall down the stairs, but from the weight of life he had once endured—and perhaps still carried.

The man took another breath and continued speaking.

"But one day... everything changed."

His eyes drifted far away, as if watching the moment unfold again before him.

"At the time, I was planning a vacation to Bali with my wife. We just wanted to take a break from the busy routine, enjoy life for a while. My schedule used to be packed with work, so this was supposed to be our moment."

"But on the way there... the car I was driving, the one my wife was in... was hit by a large container truck. They said the brakes failed when they checked it afterward. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it."

The man paused. Alaric waited quietly, giving him the space to find his words again.

After a few seconds, the man continued, his voice barely holding together:

"My wife... she died at the scene. I was devastated, shattered... I couldn’t believe it was real."

His eyes looked toward Alaric, though they were really staring into the past, into a life that had once been full and was now full of grief.

"And my children, the ones I had raised with so much love, with everything I had... They left me when I became paralyzed from the accident. All they wanted was my wealth. My assets, my company..."

"They forced me to hand it all over. They said, ’Dad, you’re old, frail, paralyzed, and sick... you can’t manage the company anymore. Let us take care of it. You just stay home and don’t interfere.’"

His voice trembled, and a few tears began to slide down his cheeks. Alaric felt the weight of the moment. The young man allowed the older man to release his pain freely.

"No one cared about me. No one paid attention. No one..." his voice trailed off, nearly lost.

Alaric lowered his head slightly, holding back any words that might sound too cliché. He simply offered his quiet attention, a warmth that needed no embellishment.

The old man took a deep breath, occasionally wiping his tears with the sleeve of his damp shirt. On his face, a trace of relief began to show. As if a burden he had long carried was finally, if only slightly, lifted because someone was willing to listen.

Alaric still didn’t speak. He just watched the man, waiting patiently, ready for him to continue or simply settle himself.

The man opened his mouth again but paused to collect himself before continuing.

"The reason I came here... was actually to see my youngest son play in a basketball match today," he said softly, every word carrying a hint of emotion. "I wanted to see him play, just like I used to when I never missed a single game, no matter how small. But when he saw me entering the stadium earlier... he immediately turned away. He ran... as if he didn’t want to be seen by his own father."

Alaric watched the man’s face, reading the deep disappointment etched into every movement.

"Maybe he was embarrassed... yes, maybe that’s it. I tried to follow him... even though I’m in a wheelchair... but he ran off, up to the second floor. It made it hard for me to catch up, but I still tried. I still hoped to talk to him."

His eyes were glassy, though he held back the tears.

"That boy is a good kid. Out of all my children, he was always the closest to me. But maybe... he just got swept up in it all. Influenced by his older siblings... and ended up making the wrong choice."

There was a visible mix of regret and frustration on his face.

"When I got to the second floor, I couldn’t find him. I didn’t see anyone."

"I turned back and tried to go down the stairs... but I fell because they were too steep. There was no wheelchair-accessible route. And that’s where I realized my limits. Luckily, someone came and helped me."

Alaric looked at the man, feeling the heaviness of everything he’d just heard.