Because of crushing poverty, I was forced to marry a wealthy old man. The idea alone made my skin crawl. But my father was buried under debt. The bank had seized our house, and we were literally left on the streets. We had no options left.
A distant relative of our family stepped forward to help—a seventy-year-old man whose wife had passed away many years ago. He promised to pay off part of the debt, arrange a place for us to live, and cover my father’s medical expenses. We were ready to bow our heads and beg him.
But his “kindness” came with a disturbing condition: I had to marry him.
For a young woman, there could be nothing more unbearable. Still, I agreed—for my father, for my family—telling myself he was much older, wouldn’t live very long, and at least we would be safe.
The Wedding Night
On our wedding night, I was terrified.
I sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to my chest, shaking so badly my teeth were chattering. Just imagining the door opening made my soul tremble.
Then the door opened.
He entered slowly, his footsteps heavy, his face wearing a strange, distant expression. In his hands, he carried a chair.
He placed the chair beside the bed, sat down, and said calmly—as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world:
“Tonight, nothing will happen between us. Go to sleep.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“And… where will you sleep?” I asked.
“I won’t,” he replied.
“I just want to watch you sleep.”
My blood seemed to freeze.
What did that mean? Was he insane? A pervert? Some kind of disturbed man?
But I was exhausted, and I knew that in the morning I would have to face my father and pretend everything was normal. So I lay down without even removing my wedding clothes.
When I woke up the next morning—he was gone.
The second night, the same thing happened. He brought the chair, sat silently, and stared at me without blinking, as if waiting for me to fall asleep.
The third night—exactly the same.
I began to believe my husband was deeply disturbed, hiding something terrible, and that I couldn’t understand his intentions.
The Fourth Night
On the fourth night, something happened that turned me to stone with fear.
I was asleep when I suddenly felt movement beside me. Heavy breathing near my ear. A low, rough sound. I jolted awake.
When I opened my eyes, he was right there—so close I could smell his old cologne. But even more terrifying was what he was doing.
I couldn’t scream. My voice was stuck in my throat.
He—my husband—was leaning over me, his eyes fixed on my eyelids, as if counting my breaths. His fingers were trembling, but they never touched me. He was just… watching.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, my voice broken.
He flinched, as if caught committing a crime, and stepped back immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I woke you.”
I sat up, the room feeling ice-cold.
“You said you would sit on the chair.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I didn’t lie. Tonight… tonight was different.”
That night, we sat in silence—me on the edge of the bed, him far away on the chair. When morning came, he was gone again.
The Truth Begins to Surface
During the day, the servants seemed afraid of him, yet spoke to me with lowered heads. No one explained anything. It was as if the entire house had made a pact of silence.
On the fourth day, I gathered the courage to ask,
“Why do you watch me at night?”
He stood by the window, mango trees swaying outside.
“Because if I don’t,” he said quietly, “something very bad could happen.”
“To me?” I asked.
“To both of us.”
There was more fear than truth in his voice.
That night, I pretended to sleep. My eyes were closed, but my mind was fully awake. Around midnight, I felt his presence again—but this time, he didn’t come close. He didn’t pull the chair. He sat on the floor, like a guard on duty.
“Are you afraid?” I asked suddenly.
He froze.
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“Not of you,” he said. “Of my past.”
Slowly, the layers began to peel away.
He told me his wife had died in her sleep. Doctors said it was her heart—but he knew it wasn’t that simple.
“She used to get up at night,” he said. “Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t really awake. Like something else was controlling her.”
My skin crawled.
“And you?”
“I was asleep,” he said. “And when I woke up… it was too late.”
From that night on, he became even more vigilant. Medicine cabinets were locked. Bells hung on doors. Windows were secured. It felt like living inside a fortress.
“Do you think I might…” I began.
He cut me off.
“No. But fear doesn’t need logic.”
The First Shock
One evening, I saw old medical files in his room—reports, notes, and a diary. I didn’t open it, but on the last page I saw a line:
“If she smiles while sleeping, the danger has passed.”
My breath stopped.
That night, I dreamed I was walking down a long corridor. Someone was calling my name from behind. I tried to run, but my legs felt heavy. I fell—and woke up.
He was there.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You were smiling.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it,” he said—and for the first time, there was relief in his voice.
Days passed. Fear turned into habit. And habit—into a strange kind of safety.
I saw him change too. His harshness softened. He talked about books, listened to old songs, and sometimes—just sometimes—laughed.
“Tell me the truth,” I asked one day. “Did you marry me only because of this fear?”
He was silent, then said,
“I married you because someone needed saving… and someone told me your dreams were clear.”
“Who?”
“A doctor,” he said. “Who is no longer alive.”
The Final Truth
The real shock came when I actually began sleepwalking.
I didn’t remember it—but the servant told me I was standing near the stairs. He had caught me, drenched in sweat.
“See?” he said. “I wasn’t wrong.”
I was terrified—of myself. But within that fear was a new trust: he wouldn’t let me fall.
“Why don’t you sleep?” I asked.
“Because if I sleep,” he said, “history will repeat itself.”
One night, the power went out. In the darkness, I reached for his hand—for the first time. He didn’t pull away.
“If I’m afraid?” I asked.
“Then I’ll keep watching,” he said. “Until morning comes.”
That night, he told me another truth: he was sick. Time was limited.
“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” he said. “In this house… in this world.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“So you bought me?”
“No,” he said. “I entrusted you—with my greatest fear.”
Nothing happened that night—and yet everything did. A bridge formed between fear and trust.
In the morning, he said,
“If you want to leave, you can.”
I shook my head.
“Not yet.”
The Role Reversal
Then things moved quickly. Doctors came. Treatment began. Rules changed. And one night—he didn’t come.
I stayed awake. The bells were silent. The doors locked.
In the morning, I was told he was in the hospital.
The white walls felt like a prison. Machines beeped endlessly. When I reached his room, he lay unconscious, looking older and more fragile than ever.
The doctor asked me,
“Who are you to him?”
I paused, then said,
“I am his wife.”
For the first time, the words felt real.
I sat on the chair—the same chair where he had watched me night after night. Now I was counting his breaths.
“If you can hear me,” I whispered, “know that I’m afraid too… just like you were.”
Three days passed. On the fourth, his fingers moved. His eyes opened.
“Were you sleeping?” he asked.
I cried.
“No,” I said. “Now it’s my turn to watch.”
He smiled weakly.
“Then the danger has passed.”
The Final Revelation
A nurse later showed me old records. His first wife hadn’t died naturally. She had fallen from the roof while sleepwalking. Three times before that—she had survived. Each time, he had caught her.
“People thought he was strange,” the nurse said. “But he was a guardian.”
I finally understood.
When he returned home, he was different—quieter, weaker, but peaceful. He no longer sat on the chair. He slept near the door.
“I don’t need to watch anymore,” he said. “You’re okay.”
But I knew—he wasn’t.
One night, he burned with fever, murmuring,
“Don’t go… look… smile…”
I held his hand.
“I’m here.”
He looked at me without fear for the first time.
“You should hate me.”
“Maybe I did once,” I said. “Not anymore.”
Later, I learned the truth about myself: childhood trauma, buried deep. Under stress, it surfaced.
“Your husband recognized it,” the doctor said. “Before you did.”
I stayed awake that night—not afraid, just regretful.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Because if I had,” he said, “you would have run.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s too late.”
The End
His condition worsened. One evening he said,
“If I’m gone—sell the house. Take your father. Start a new life.”
That night, after he fell asleep, I sat on the chair and watched him.
He was smiling.
I understood then—the danger was never me. It was him.
The next morning, he chose surgery. Risky. Hours passed.
The doctor came out smiling.
“He survived.”
I cried.
This marriage had never been a transaction. It was two broken people finding each other.
Years later, when he passed away peacefully in his sleep, I was beside him.
He was smiling.
There was no fear anymore.
The lesson was simple, but costly:
Sometimes the strangest man is the one protecting the most.
And sometimes, instead of running from fear, you need to hold someone’s hand and stand in front of it.
I found him in a deal.
But I lost him in love.