Chapter 3 The Story They Chose To Believe

CHAPTER 3: A Story They Chose to Believe

I did not leave the house. Not after everything that had happened.

People expected me to move on, to go somewhere else, to stay with distant relatives or accept the quiet offers of help that came wrapped in pity. I refused all of them. I stayed in that house, surrounded by the silence they had left behind, because it was the only place where the truth still felt real.

Everywhere else, the story had already changed.

Inside the house, the air still carried the memory of that night. The overturned chair had been set back in place, the broken glass cleaned, the stains scrubbed until the floor looked almost normal again. But I remembered where everything had been. I could still see it when I closed my eyes. I knew exactly where my father had stood, where the cup had shattered, where the blood had begun.

They could clean the house, but they could not erase what I had seen. And I was not going to let them erase it from my mind either.

Uncle Victor never visited after the burial. At first, it seemed natural. He had been my father’s closest associate, almost like family. People expected him to grieve, but it was all suspicious to me

I was in the sitting room, staring at nothing in particular when I heard a knock. For a moment, I considered not answering, but the knock came again, gentler this time, almost hesitant.

When I opened the door, Victor stood there with a small paper bag in one hand.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

He gave a short nod, as though that was what he had expected, and stepped inside when I moved aside.

“I brought something,” he said, holding up the bag slightly. “You haven’t been eating properly.”

I didn’t ask how he knew. He walked into the kitchen without waiting for permission and set the bag on the counter. The familiarity of it made something in me tighten. He moved like he had always belonged there, opening cupboards, reaching for plates, pouring water into a glass. I sighed. What was I thinking? It was something he had always done when my father was there.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d feel like eating,” he continued, unwrapping the contents. “So I got a few things.”

I leaned against the doorway, watching him.

“You didn’t have to,” I said.

He didn't give a response. It was all quiet but not awkward. That was what made it difficult.

He turned slightly, glancing at me. “When was the last time you ate something proper?”

It was my own turn to remain silent.

He placed a plate on the table and gestured toward it. “Sit.”

I didn’t move immediately. Something about the situation felt wrong, though I couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was because everything had changed, yet he stood there acting as though something normal could still exist in this house. Or maybe it was because I remembered the note.

‘Not even Victor’’

The words had not left my mind since I found them. And now he was suddenly standing there like my father's friend that I'd always known, carefully arranging food on a plate for me.

He looked.. the same. The same man who used to visit my father. The same man who laughed at his jokes. The same man who always carries Dan on his shoulder and plays with us. The same man who had carried files into this house and left long after sunset.

If there was anything different, I couldn’t see it.

“You’re staring,” he said, without looking up. “Is there a problem”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “Nothing.”

He didn’t press.

Instead, he pulled out a chair and sat down across my seat.

“You can come stay with me for a while,” he continued after a pause. “At least until things settle.”

I looked up at him. “Things?” I asked.

Now he seemed to consider the word before answering.

“Everything,” he said. “The house, the investigations, the… attention.”

Attention. So he knew.

“You mean people talking,” I said.

“That too.”

“They’ll stop.”

“Eventually,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to endure it.”

I studied his face. There was nothing in it that looked forced. No sign that he was choosing his words carefully. If anything, he seemed.. patient.

He leaned back slightly in his chair.

“You’re thinking a lot. The burden is too heavy for you to carry. Rest. Let others handle what needs to be handled.”

“And you’re one of those people?”

“If you’ll allow it.”

I looked down at the table. At the plate of food he had brought. At the glass of water he had poured.

At the hands that had arranged everything so carefully. It didn’t look like the work of someone hiding something.

Because if he was involved– if the note was right– then this was all an act. But if it wasn’t. I felt stupid. Standing here, suspecting the one person who had actually shown up.

“You should eat,” he said quietly.

I nodded and forced myself to take a bite.

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” he continued. “About staying here or leaving. Just… think about it.”

“I will.”

He stood after a moment, smoothing out his sleeve.

“I’ll come by again tomorrow,” he said. “If that’s alright.”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yes.”

He gave a small, almost relieved smile.

“Good.”

When he reached the door, he paused briefly, as if he wanted to say something else. But then he shook his head slightly and stepped outside.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I remained where I was, staring at the plate in front of me.

My father’s words echoed in my mind again.

‘Not even Victor’.

I looked at the food. At the chair he had just left. At the quiet house. And for the first time since I read that note.. I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

The paper I found might be nothing too. I tore it up.

Uncle Victor came by again. And again. It all felt normal. But by the third time, I knew it was not. He was not just remembering my father.

I made sure he never noticed that I noticed. That became my first real decision after everything. If uncle Victor was involved, then I would not confront him. Not yet. I had to understand first. I had to see what he would do when he thought no one was watching.

So I gave him what he expected. A quiet, grieving boy who asked no questions. And it worked.

On this particular day, he arrived just before noon. I was in the sitting room when he walked in, dressed as always in a neatly pressed shirt, his shoes polished to a dull shine.

He studied me for a moment, then sighed.

“If you don't want to stay with me, I've spoken to someone about arranging a place for you. Somewhere quieter. Safer.”

Safer. The word settled uneasily in my mind. Why would he think this place is not safe enough? As if he also believed it wasn't suicide.

“Why would I need that?” I asked, keeping my tone calm.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

“It is only a precaution,” he said. “Your father was.. involved in certain matters. There may be people who take advantage of this situation.”

I nodded slowly, as though I understood nothing beyond what he had said.

“I’ll think about it.”

He seemed satisfied with that.

But as he turned away, I saw something I had not noticed before. His hand brushed against the edge of the table, and for a brief moment, I caught sight of a faint scar along his knuckles.

It was small. Easy to miss. But it was there.

My father was left-handed. The injury on his hand had been on the left. Victor’s scar was on his right. I did not jump to conclusions, but I did not ignore it either. Details mattered.

After he left, I went into my father’s study again.

I had already searched most of it, but this time I looked differently. Not just for hidden notes or obvious clues, but for patterns– what was missing, what had been moved, what did not belong.

The desk drawers had been disturbed and it was not by me. One of the files that had been there before was gone.

I knew it had been there because I remembered my father placing it inside the drawer two nights before his death. A thick brown file, tied with a red string. I had not thought anything of it at the time, but now its absence stood out clearly.

Only uncle Victor had been in this room. He had taken something. That confirmed it for me. All the doubts and the confusion. He had been so kind to me. But he was not just a grieving friend. He was part of whatever had destroyed my family.

The next few days followed the same pattern.

Victor visited and he spoke gently. He watched me carefully, though he tried to hide it. And I watched him more closely. It was still hard for me to ask questions or do anything. I was scared.

Once, I saw him standing near the gate, speaking to a man I did not recognize. The man wore a dark suit, the kind that looked too formal for our street. They spoke briefly, and when Victor noticed me at the window, the conversation ended immediately. The man left without looking back.

Victor came inside a few minutes later as though nothing had happened. That was when I became certain. The men in black suits were real and not just my imagination. They did come to see my father. And Victor was connected to them.

I forced myself to leave the house one afternoon.

Not because I wanted to, but because I needed to see how the world outside had changed.

The moment I stepped onto the road, I felt it.

The stares. They were not open or obvious, but they were there. People noticed me. They always did but this was different.

Before, it had been admiration. Now it was something else.

I walked past a group of women near the corner shop. Their voices lowered the moment I approached, but I still caught fragments of their conversation.

“That’s him…”

“…the only one who survived…”

“…they said the spirits are restless…”

I kept walking.

At the market, the noise should have drowned everything out, but it did not. I could still feel the weight of people’s attention.

A young boy, no older than Daniel, ran straight toward me, laughing as he chased a small rubber ball. When he saw me, he stopped abruptly.

For a second, we just stared at each other. Then his expression changed. The laughter vanished from his face, replaced by something I had never seen directed at me before.

Fear.

He dropped the ball and ran.

“Wait,” I called instinctively, but he was already gone, disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there, confused, until I heard the whisper behind me.

“Don’t go near him.”

I turned slightly.

A group of children stood a few steps away, watching me. One of them, a girl with braided hair, spoke in a hushed voice.

“My mother said evil spirits are following him.”

Another boy nodded quickly.

“They said his family didn’t die peacefully.”

“They said the spirits are angry.”

“And they stayed with him.”

I felt something cold settle in my chest. So this was what I had become. I was not just the boy from a broken home. Not just the survivor of a tragedy. But something worse.

Now people avoided me. Children now feared me. My chest tightened and my eyes burned with tears. But I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

I turned and walked away, ignoring the way their voices dropped even lower as I passed.

That evening, I returned home earlier than usual. I couldn't even buy all the things I needed. Victor was already there. He stood in the sitting room, his back to me, looking at something on the table. When he heard the door, he turned.

“You went out,” he said, as though surprised.

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

I shrugged. “The same.”

He studied my face carefully, as if searching for something. Then he smiled faintly.

“You should try to move forward,” he said. “dwelling on the past will only hurt you.”

I met his gaze. “And forgetting it won’t?”

For a moment, the smile on his face faltered. Just slightly. Then it returned.

“Some things are better left behind,” he said.

I nodded, as though I agreed. But inside, something hardened. He wanted me to forget. That meant there was something worth remembering. He wanted me to leave.

I went to my room, but I couldn't sleep. I rarely did anymore. I was about to leave my room when I heard the faint sound of voices coming from the sitting room.

Uncle Victor.

And someone else.

I moved quietly, careful not to make a sound, and stopped just before the doorway.

“…he’s still here,” Victor was saying.

The other voice was unfamiliar. Low. Controlled.

“That’s a problem.”

“He doesn’t suspect anything,” Victor replied quickly. Almost pleadingly. I felt my chest tighten.

“No?” the man asked.

“No. He’s just a child.” he said this with a nervous laughter that sounded dry even to my own ears.

There was a pause. Then the man spoke again.

“Children grow, you know”

The words settled heavily in the air.

“We should move him,” Victor said. “Send him away. Somewhere he won’t be found.”

“And if he refuses?”

There was another pause. Longer this time.

Then the answer came, calm and final.

“Then he becomes a risk.”

I stopped breathing. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain they would hear it. Did Uncle Victor just say that?

A sudden fear engulfed me and I stepped

back slowly, carefully, making sure the floor did not creak beneath my feet.

At that moment, everything became clear. Uncle Victor was not just involved. He was actively deciding what would happen to me.

And whatever they had planned…

I was next.