Mathew's injuries were far worse than we had imagined. Bruised ribs, cuts that ran deep, and a spirit nearly shattered—he was in no condition to leave the old house. So, he stayed, confined to the very place where the pain had been inflicted, and I, against my will, was forced to stay with him.

His mother, desperate and anxious, cornered me one morning, her eyes hollow with worry. “You must take care of Mathew,” she insisted, her voice trembling, though she tried to mask it with a smile. "He needs you." But I knew what she truly wanted. In her mind, tending to Mathew’s wounds might heal more than just...