The Man She Brought Home

My name is Heinrich Griffith. Clara Hardy and I used to be seen by everyone as a match made in heaven. She cared for me down to my bones; that kind of love was woven into every little detail of our daily life. Warm milk ready first thing in the morning, a lamp left on late at night, clothes prepared well before the season changed—she even remembered the little things I mentioned offhand, for ages on end. Back then, I always felt that as long as I had Clara Hardy in my life, I wouldn't want anything else. But that peace was ultimately shattered by an unexpected guest. That day, Clara came home late, dust and a faint trace of blood still on her. I was waiting for her to eat when the door opened and I saw her supporting a stranger standing there. The man was covered in wounds, his lips bruised purple, his arm sliced up with a few nasty cuts, his eyes full of fear and suspicion. "His name's Cole Ward. He got beaten up. I brought him home to recover first." Clara Hardy's tone was resolute, leaving no room for doubt. I knitted my brows tightly, a surge of irritation instantly bubbling up inside me. Our home was our little world—just the two of us. We never let another man stay over, let alone some injured stranger with no backstory. "Clara, do you even realize what you're doing?" I kept my temper in check as I asked her. "He's being chased by loan sharks and has nowhere to go. I can't just stand by and do nothing." Clara Hardy helped Cole Ward into the living room, completely disregarding my feelings. Watching her carefully tend to Cole Ward like that, the fire inside me only burned hotter. That tenderness was mine alone, her special favor just for me—now it's all fallen onto another man. "No way, I'm not okay with him living here." I stepped forward and blocked them. "Heinrich, he's just an injured guy, don't be so harsh." Clara Hardy's tone turned cold, her eyes full of disappointment in me. Harsh? I just don't want a stranger barging into our life. During the argument, Cole Ward instinctively pulled back behind Clara Hardy; that fragile look only poured fuel on the fire. I lost control and slapped the tea set off the coffee table. The sharp crack of breaking ceramics filled the air as shards scattered. Clara Hardy gasped and instinctively shielded Cole Ward. A sharp shard grazed Cole Ward's right cheek, instantly drawing drops of blood. Cole Ward let out a muffled groan, his face going even paler. I looked at the wound, a flash of panic running through me, but what took over was a fierce, blinding rage. My emotions spiraled out of control, and suddenly, a stabbing pain shot through my right leg. It was an old injury, one I got saving Clara Hardy. On rainy days or when my mood swings badly, it always flares up. I staggered back a step, cold sweat instantly soaking my back; the pain nearly brought me to my knees. I thought Clara would rush to me like before, help me up, and nervously ask how I was doing. But she didn't. Her eyes were locked on Cole Ward's face as she carefully wiped his wounds with a tissue, her gaze full of pain. She didn't even glance in my direction, as if I, gasping in pain, was nothing more than a piece of useless furniture.