Chapter 3. Seeds of Doubts

The door shut behind us with a click that sounded louder than it should've. We walked back in silence, the chill in the afternoon air doing little to cool the strange warmth still lingering in my chest, not the kind of warmth that comes from comfort, but from unease.

I wanted to say something. Just a line: Did that feel…off to you? But every time I opened my mouth, her calm face told me not to. She was walking beside me like nothing had happened. As if that stinking, too-tight hug from the old man hadn't happened. As if his hand hadn't hovered near her ass longer than any polite gesture should allow.

Back inside our home, she slipped off her slippers and walked into the kitchen.

"Next time," she said casually, pulling her hair back into a bun, "we take candles. That place needs them more than fruits." She giggled, almost too perfectly.

I chuckled back, forcing it.

The air in our home was warm and inviting, just the way we'd wanted it. Still, I couldn't help but feel like we had dragged in something... unpleasant from outside. I tried to shake it off. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe she was right — first impressions aren't everything. Maybe the hug was just… cultural? Maybe?

That evening, we went out to catch a film — a soft romantic drama, one of those "moving to a new life" types. Fitting. She laughed at all the right moments, leaned into me during the slow ones. Her fingers occasionally found mine in the dark. For a while, it felt like nothing had changed. For a while, I let go.

The walk back was quiet, hand in hand. The moonlight hung low over the neighborhood, and most houses were already dark — curtains drawn, lights dimmed.

But one house, the third one from the corner, was very much awake.

As we passed it, the night was broken by something strange: A rhythmic, primal sound. Then a sharp gasp. Then moans, unmistakably a woman's, spilling through the thin walls, raw and unfiltered. The kind that aren't just loud… but intentional. Like they wanted someone to hear.

My wife froze mid-step, her fingers stiffening around mine. Her eyes darted forward — not toward the house, but ahead, like she was pretending not to notice. Her cheeks flushed pink, and without saying a word, she quickened her pace, almost pulling me along.

I looked back at the window. A dim light glowed behind the curtain, swaying gently as if something was rocking inside.

"Shameless people," I muttered.

She didn't respond.

Back home, she moved about normally. Took off her cardigan. Poured water into a glass. Made some light conversation. She was calm — a little quieter than usual — but nothing out of the ordinary.

We brushed, changed, and slipped into bed. I thought the day was done.

But then, just as I turned off the light, it came again.

The same house. The same moans. Louder this time. Fiercer. The woman was screaming now. Not in pain — no. In abandon. As if she had nothing to hide. As if the world outside those walls didn't exist.

I turned to my wife. Her head was angled slightly toward the sound. Her eyes were half-open. Not closed in sleep. Not in discomfort. But in attention.

She didn't say anything. Her breath was even, her body still. And for a moment, something inside me stirred — something between jealousy and confusion. I didn't want to ask what she was thinking. I didn't want to know.

So instead, I reached out, my hand sliding over her waist. Her body shifted toward me almost immediately.

There was no resistance. No hesitation. She kissed me back — deeply, hungrily — as if something had been lit inside her. We made love.

She responded eagerly. Moved like she meant every motion. Moaned softly in ways that were both familiar and slightly different. I told myself it was passion. I told myself it was just the excitement of a new place, a new chapter.

When it was over, we lay there in the dark. She turned over, facing away from the window.I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the last echoes from that house still bouncing off the walls.

I told myself: Our sex life is great. She's happy. We're happy.

I told myself that again and again.

But a whisper in my mind — slow, cold, persistent — kept asking me:

What if I'm wrong?

4. The Crack in the Wall

The next morning was brighter than any so far, but my head still felt heavy, like I was carrying the weight of everything that had happened in the past two days. Still, I forced a smile. I didn't want my thoughts to ruin what could be a fresh start.

I turned to my wife, who was standing near the kitchen counter, half-distracted by her thoughts. "Good morning," I said with a cheerful tone, trying to push away the unease.

She looked back at me, a little puzzled by my sudden energy, but smiled politely. "Good morning," she replied.

"I'll need my lunch early today," I reminded her gently. "I'm heading to the office."

"Oh! Right," she said, quickly gathering her focus. "I'll start preparing it now."

As she moved around in her simple housewife clothes — a fitted blouse and flowing skirt — she looked effortlessly beautiful. Her neat bun and soft presence made our messy reality seem a little more bearable.

I went to take a bath. The bathroom still smelled a bit musty, probably from the age of the building. As I washed my face, my eyes caught something unusual. It caught my eye as the sun hit the right spot. A hole, not too big, not too small, right at the center of the wall, facing probably the bathroom of the other house.

I leaned closer. It wasn't a regular crack. It was round, as if someone had made it intentionally. But from this side, it was dark, covered by something, maybe a board or cloth.

"Hmm," I murmured to myself. "Looks like they've already blocked it from the other side."

Still, a strange discomfort sat with me as I ran the towel over my shoulders. Something about that hole made me uneasy, but I shrugged it off. "I'll patch it up later," I thought. "No rush."

After drying off, I told my wife about the hole. "There's a small one in the bathroom wall. Looks like it's covered from the other side, but I'll fix it when I'm back."

She raised an eyebrow. "A hole?"

"Yeah, maybe from an old pipe or something. It's covered. Don't worry."

She nodded slowly. "Alright."

I got dressed and took one last look at her before leaving. "Take care today. Stay inside. If anything feels off, call me, okay?"

She smiled. "I will."

I kissed her forehead gently. But even as I walked out the door, a weight pressed on my chest — a quiet whisper that something wasn't right. My gut had never been so uneasy in my life.

I spent the day trying to push the strange feelings aside, focusing on work and hoping everything would be normal when I got back. But when I finally stepped inside our home around 8 p.m., a chill ran down my spine.

The first thing I noticed was a slipper by the door — a man's slipper. My heart suddenly hammered in my chest. I tried to tell myself it was nothing, maybe a neighbor dropping by, but the knot in my stomach tightened.

As I walked deeper inside, I saw her, my wife, standing close to a man who looked like he was just about to leave. She seemed tense, her cheeks flushed softly, and she avoided his eyes.

I cleared my throat. "Hello," I said, my voice steady but cautious.

The man turned with a slow grin. "Hey there," he said casually. "I just came by to help your little wife. She was having some trouble with the tap."

My wife's cheeks colored deeper, and she kept looking down, almost like she was hiding something. A cold sting hit my chest.

The man gave me a chuckle as he brushed past, almost mocking me with his confidence. The whole scene felt like a silent challenge, and I felt like an outsider in my own home.

My wife finally spoke softly, "Go wash up. I'll get dinner ready."

I nodded silently, my mind racing. I wanted to ask her what really happened — why she seemed so different — but I swallowed the questions. I told myself to trust her.

Later, as I washed up and we ate dinner, she tried to explain. She said she didn't know anyone here yet, and when the tap broke, the man just happened to be nearby and helped her.

Her words were calm, but my eyes caught something else—the dress she wore now was different from the one she had on when I left for work. The soft fabric hugged her curves perfectly, and I noticed how the skirt swayed gently as she moved. That dress… it wasn't the one I saw earlier.

I froze. Was she hiding something? Or had the day taken a turn I didn't know about?

But as she smiled at me, warm and familiar, I wanted to believe her. I kissed her good night, holding her close for a moment, though my mind still spun with questions.

That dress lingered in my thoughts — a secret hanging between us, unseen but heavy.