That day, the sky looked furious, like it was angry at the whole world and wanted to wash everything away. Thick, dark clouds pressed low over the house, and the rain slammed hard against the roof, one wave after another, as if it was trying to break through.
The wind screamed and whistled around the walls, shaking the windows so violently that they rattled nonstop. The power had gone out hours earlier, leaving the house cold, silent, and empty, like a place already abandoned.
Inside, everything felt wrong. The tiled floor was wet and slippery, shining faintly under the weak gray light that crept in through the windows. Every step felt dangerous.
I remember holding onto the wall as I walked back from the warehouse, my fingers cold and stiff, my shoes soaked. The storm was so loud that it swallowed the sound of my footsteps completely. It felt like the world was closing in on me.
I reached the stairs leading to the front door. My mind was tired, my body heavy. Then, without warning, my foot slid on the top step.
I didn’t even have time to scream.
There was no pain that I can remember. Just a sudden rush, a sharp jolt—and then nothing.
The world went dark, as if someone had turned off a switch. Later, the neighbor said she heard a loud crash, a dull, heavy sound that made her heart jump. She ran out into the rain and found me lying there. My eyes were open, but there was nothing in them. No fear. No life.
At the hospital, the doctor shook his head and spoke gently, as if softness could change the truth. He told them my skull had cracked from the fall. He said, “She died instantly. There was nothing anyone could do.”
And that was it.
No police questions. No investigation. No suspicion. Just a sad accident, quickly explained and even more quickly forgotten. My name appeared briefly in the local paper, surrounded by other small tragedies, and then people moved on with their lives.
But I didn’t.
I stayed.
For five long years, I remained trapped in that house—no longer alive, but not truly gone either. I was like a shadow that couldn’t disappear, a whisper that refused to fade. Days and nights blurred together. Time meant nothing. I didn’t care about food, weather, or the world outside.
I cared about only one thing.
A small pot of purple orchids sitting quietly by the window.
It had been his wedding gift to me. Huy had smiled so proudly when he handed it over and said, “Purple orchids last a long time. Just like us.” To anyone else, it was just an ordinary plant. But to me, it held the last warmth he ever gave.
It carried his touch, his care, his love. That flowerpot became my entire world—the only piece of him I could still feel after death.
I never imagined that hidden inside that simple pot was a secret powerful enough to tear everything apart.
The discovery happened on an ordinary afternoon. The stormy days were long gone. Soft sunlight spilled through the balcony doors, warming the room gently. I was near the window, watching the light move slowly across the orchid petals, when chaos suddenly broke the calm.
The neighbor’s cat had chased my dog onto the balcony. They ran wildly, slipping and sliding, knocking into everything in their path. Before I could react, they crashed into the wooden shelf.
The sound of breaking ceramic was sharp and cruel.
The orchid pot fell to the floor and shattered into pieces.
It felt like something inside me snapped too. That pot was the last thing tying me to Huy. I knelt down, my hands shaking, gathering the broken pieces carefully, as if touching them too roughly would hurt him. Soil spilled everywhere, mixing with sharp white shards. And then—something strange caught my eye.
Buried deep in the dirt was a small cloth bundle, old and stained.
I froze.
This was his gift to me. I had cared for it for years. How could there be something inside it that I had never seen?
The fabric was worn and frayed, tied tightly with a thin black thread. My heart started pounding hard, even though I didn’t fully understand why. My fingers trembled as I slowly untied the knot.
Inside was a scratched silver USB stick and a small folded piece of paper. The handwriting was faint, uneven, and shaky.
“Thu… if you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it. Take this to the police. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t let them near you.”
I felt like the air had been sucked out of my chest.
He knew?
He knew something would happen?
Who were “they”?
My entire body went cold. Somehow, through the shock, I remembered the emergency number I hadn’t used in years. With trembling hands, I dialed 113.
When the police arrived, I could barely speak. My throat felt tight, my voice weak. I just pointed at the bundle on the floor and whispered, “My husband… he didn’t just fall. It wasn’t an accident.”
Lieutenant Minh was assigned to the case. He carefully examined the USB and signaled his team to check it immediately. The room felt colder than before. After a few tense minutes, he returned, his face serious.
“There’s a video on it,” he said quietly. “You should prepare yourself.”
My hands gripped the table so hard they hurt.
When the screen turned on, I saw his face.
Huy.
He was sitting in our old living room. His eyes looked tired, scared, but determined.
“If you’re watching this,” he said softly, “then I’m no longer here.”
My chest tightened.
“My death won’t be an accident,” he continued. “Someone is trying to silence me.”
The officers exchanged uneasy looks.
“Three months ago,” Huy said, “I found strange transactions at work. Money moving through fake accounts. It’s a laundering ring. They’re dangerous, Thu. If they take me out, it’ll look like a slip or a fall. Don’t believe it.”
Tears streamed down my face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he added, looking straight into the camera. “I wanted to protect you. If you’re still alive when you see this—run.”
The video ended.
Lieutenant Minh broke the silence. “Mrs. Thu… this may have been a planned murder.”
I collapsed, crying uncontrollably.
We returned to the house, to the very stairs where Huy had died. Everything looked the same, just older and dusty. Minh asked, “Did anyone visit your house that day?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. One of his colleagues. Phong. Tall, dark hair, always smiling.”
Minh froze. “Phong? He’s a suspect in the same laundering case. He disappeared three years ago.”
A forensic officer suddenly called out, “Sir, there’s lubricant residue on the step. Someone applied it.”
My stomach twisted.
That night, the USB revealed everything—emails, recordings, photos. One audio message made my blood run cold.
“Keep quiet and live,” a man sneered. “Talk, and you’re dead. One slip is all it takes.”
Minh slammed the table. “That’s Phong.”
The final recording was Huy’s voice. “If I die, Thu will tell the truth.”
Three weeks later, Minh called. “We caught him.”
But there was no joy in my heart.
Phong’s confession confirmed everything. The fall was planned. The USB was never found—until now.
Later, Minh brought me one last letter from Huy.
“Thu,” it read, “if I come home, I’ll tell you everything. If not… don’t grieve too long. The truth matters. You’re stronger than you think. I love you.”
I cried until my voice was gone.
I placed a new pot of purple orchids on the windowsill. That evening, I lit incense and whispered, “I did it, Huy. You can rest now.”
A soft wind brushed my cheek.
For the first time in five years, I felt free.
No more fear. Only peace—and a love that never fades.