The party was scheduled to begin at nine in the evening. It was made so, because most of the attendees are coming from far away towns. The host, Michael, made his way towards the hotel's garden where the party is to be held. He watched in the sidelines as his wife gave out instructions—making sure that everything is accounted for.

He smiled, Jane is such a good woman. She had done everything she could to support him. They got married before either of them could finish college. It was hell at first, but somehow, they made it.

He now have everything he ever wanted. A good career, loving wife and two gorgeous kids. Some may say, Michael is living the dream—but, a part of him screams for something more, something he is missing. What it is, he can't point out. But he is certain, there's a hole inside of him somewhere, needing to be filled.

"Were lacking table napkins!" He heard his wife scream. He watched how the hotel employee bow his head in front of his wife, clearly appolozing for their mistake.

Michael knows how short tempered Jane can be, he walked over to her and asked the employee to take his leave.

"Don't stress yourself, I'll go to the nearest grocery store and buy some." He said to her, and left with a kiss on his wife's cheek.

The store is not too far from the hotel, so Michael took his time. He drove his red painted Ford down the road accompanied by the hum of an intrumental music on his car's stereo. His wife never had the same liking as him when it came to music. Jane preferred the upbeat rhythms, while he savored on the soft melody of pianos and violins.

He was about to take a turn on the street leading towards the grocery store, when he caught sight of the long narrow street that served as the main road to a small subdivision called Basma.

He never liked coming to this part of the town, and as his mind drifted back to a painful memory, Michael found himself maneuvering his car towards the narrow street. He stopped just beside an old looking lamppost. The metal bar which served to brace the small light bulb looks rusty, he can't help but wonder, why didn't any of the community's people remove the damn thing?

Not fully aware of what he's doing,  Michael stepped out of his car and found himself standing under the lamppost. The light kept flickering and he worriedly questioned whether it is safe to stay under it. The thing looks like it's about to collapse, despite being functional.

He shook his head, and did everything he could to will away a certain memory. A scene which he regretted, for the longest of time. It has been two decades. He is a happy man now, he has everything—so why? Why does she still plague his mind whenever he's alone? Why does her tear streaked face kept haunting him despite the years?

Not wanting to dwell on it further, Michael lowered his upturned face and was about to return to his car, when under the silence of the night, he saw a figure walking towards him.

It wasn't supposed to startle him or have him find it ode to see someone walking the narrow street. But, there is something familiar about the figure. He waited, and to his surprise, under the mute silver shower of the moon he sees her. The girl, no—the woman who had been a constant but silent companion of his thoughts.

He only have a minute to decide, step inside his car and pretend he didn't see her, then greet her—only when the party starts, under the watchful eye of his wife and friends, or greet her now—under the same street lamp where he had left her broken, two decades ago?

The answer is made for him when his legs refused to move, it felt glued on the ground he is standing on.  A warm breeze of air flung his shoulder length hair, obscuring his sight of the approaching figure. Using his index finger, he tucked the loose hair at the back of his ear. He should have tied his hair before leaving the hotel—Michael thought to himself. His wife hated his hair style, but Michael wanted it long, and despite the numerous threats of Jane about cutting his hair while he slept, he kept his long locks.

As she kept getting closer to where he's at, Michael squinted his eyes, is she aware that it is him standing beside the lamppost? Surely, she would have recognizer him.

He braced himself as she got nearer. His breath hitched when the weak attempt of the old street lamp illuminated her entirety. He expected her to stop, greet him and smile—but to his horror, what greeted him, is her pale face with a bleeding lip. There is also a horizontal cut on her left cheek. Her hair, one which he failed to notice sooner is disheveled. Its as if Melissa was in a fight.

Instinctively, he ran towards her and asked if she was alright. Melissa didn't answer. Matter of fact, she looked at him with a puzzled expression, seemingly wondering who he is. She started to turn her head from left to right, panic beginning to grace her bloodied face.

His knowledge, honed by years of being a doctor immediately made Michael conclude that Melissa is currently in shock. He didn't want to scare her further, so he stepped back and held out his hand to her while saying, "Its alright, I'm a doctor. Let me take you to the hospital."

At first he expected her to refuse, but she didn't. She took his hand and followed him inside his car.

Initially, Michael truly wanted to bring her to the hospital, but—remembering the silent but deadly jealousy Jane held for Melissa, he decided it best to bring her home.

As he drove, his mind went from clinical to emotional. Yes, despite the years—Jane kept telling him that she still feels threatened when it comes to Melissa. His wife insisted that Michael still held Melissa somewhere inside his heart. He assured her that she is mistaken, but seeing what he's doing now. Maybe, there is gravity behind his wife's fear.

"Hospital." Melissa murmured from beside him. He positioned her beside the driver's seat, so naturally—she will see where they're headed.

"I don't think it's wise for me to bring you to the hospital. The people there might conclude something, before either of us can say a word." Michael replied.

Whether Melissa understood what he meant, he can't say for sure. But, she bobbed her head and drifted off to sleep.

As the clock striked eight, Michael continued to drive his car towards his house, a place which at that moment, held not a single soul.

"Right, she doesn't need the hospital, her wounds are superficial, He whispered, as he reached the brown gate of the house, he shared with his wife.