Mrs. Patel, a grocer at the head of New Delhi Colony, was the first to hear the scream.

That night, she was half asleep when a scream tore through the night, startling her.

It was a woman’s voice — shrill, choked, trembling as if she had just seen something terrible.

Without time to put on slippers, she ran barefoot to house number 27, where Anaya, her young daughter-in-law who had lost her husband less than a year ago, was living with her father-in-law, Mr. Sharma.

The door was unlocked, the lights were on. Neighbors rushed out, some with flashlights, some with brooms, all in a panic.

In the bedroom, Anaya sat huddled in the corner, her nightgown disheveled, her face pale.

And Mr. Sharma — a former government official, respected throughout the neighborhood — knelt in the middle of the room, his hands shaking, his eyes bewildered as if he had just woken from a dream.

“What’s the matter, Anaya?” – a man in the neighborhood asked.

Anaya choked, unable to speak, and finally managed to say:

“He… he was going to get into my bed.”

No one could say a word.

The whole neighborhood fell silent, unable to believe what they had just heard.
A calm, dignified man, who had worked all his life in the finance ministry… would do such a thing?
But the genuine fear in Anaya’s eyes made everyone shiver.

The story of Mr. Sharma moving in with his daughter-in-law began after the funeral of Raghav, Anaya’s husband.
Raghav died in a traffic accident while on a business trip to Jaipur, leaving behind his wife of less than two years. Anaya was three months pregnant at the time, but after the shock of losing her husband, she had a miscarriage.

She returned to the couple’s small house on the outskirts of Delhi, living quietly and alone.
Her parents were in Kerala, and her mother-in-law had passed away long ago. So when Mr. Sharma said he wanted to retire early to “take care of his daughter-in-law,” she didn’t dare refuse.

At first, everything was normal.
Mr. Sharma was a quiet, reserved person. He liked to read newspapers, grow flowers, and in the evenings he often sat watching the news.
Anaya worked all day, and came home to cook dinner. The two of them ate a quick meal and then each went to their own room.
Life went on like that — cold but peaceful.

But gradually, Anaya began to feel something was wrong.
One time she came home early and found her door slightly open. The towel she had left on the table was neatly folded, unlike her usual routine.
Her shoes were moved, and the pillow smelled of a strange perfume.
And then every night, she saw someone standing in the hallway for a long time — not knocking, just standing there.

She began to be afraid. But she didn’t dare tell anyone.

That night, around midnight, she woke up to the sound of light footsteps.
The door was unlocked. The footsteps stopped.

Then the door opened.

The light from the hallway shone in, revealing the silhouette of a man.

It was Mr. Sharma.

“Dad… what are you doing here?” Anaya asked, trembling.

He did not answer.
He walked slowly forward, his eyes wandering.

Anaya screamed.
The scream woke up the whole neighborhood.

The next morning, Mr. Sharma left the house without saying a word.

He took the early train back to Lucknow, to live with his sister, Diya.
The whole neighborhood talked for weeks.

“It’s terrible, he dared to do that to his daughter-in-law!”

“But Sharma is a decent man, you can’t believe it!”

The rumors spread like wildfire.

Anaya lived a life of vagrancy, quit her job, and went to see a psychiatrist.

Only a few old people in the neighborhood shook their heads:

“Don’t be so quick to judge, maybe he has a problem. I saw the look in his eyes that day… it was strange.”

One afternoon, while cleaning out the closet, Anaya accidentally found her husband Raghav’s old notebook.
She flipped through it, and among the scribbles, she was stunned when she read the first line…“Dad went to the doctor. They said he has the onset of Alzheimer’s. He hides everything, including me.
Lately, he’s been getting confused, sometimes calling mom’s name in the middle of the night.
Yesterday, he said he saw mom in the house. I’m scared…”

Anaya put the notebook down, her heart pounding.
A feeling of guilt and fear rose up.
The vague memories suddenly became clear — Mr. Sharma once called her “Meera,” the name of his late wife.
She had thought he was just missing his wife, but now… could it be that in his eyes, she was Meera?

Unable to bear the torment, Anaya took the train to Lucknow to find him.

When she arrived, his sister Diya looked at her and sighed:

“I knew you would come.
My brother… he misses you. He keeps calling ‘Meera’. He thinks you are her.”

“What did you say?” – Anaya’s voice trembled.

“He has severe Alzheimer’s. Many times he walks around in the middle of the night, calling his wife’s name, hugging an old shirt and crying.
That night, he must have been sleepwalking. He thought you were Meera. He loved her so much that he will never forget her.”

Anaya sat silently, tears welling up.
The terrifying obsession turned out to be the tragedy of a man with dementia.

“I… I’m sorry. I misunderstood him that day,” – she choked.

Mrs. Diya gently placed her hand on her shoulder:

“No one blames you. In that situation, everyone is afraid.

But if possible, tell everyone. My brother has lived a good life, he doesn’t deserve to be shamed.”

Anaya nodded. She knew what she had to do.

A few weeks later, she returned to New Delhi Colony.

She invited Mrs. Patel, the head of the colony, and a few close neighbors.

On the table, she placed Raghav’s notebook, rereading the lines about her father-in-law’s illness.

She recounted the whole story, from the memory loss to the longing for his deceased wife, from the fateful night to the moment she realized he was just a man lost in the past.

No one said anything.

After a while, Mrs. Patel said softly, her eyes red:

“Poor him… So that’s how it was.”

After that, the story spread throughout the neighborhood, no longer a rumor, but a vindication.

People gradually understood, and silence replaced judgment.

Anaya returned to her old life.
Occasionally, she visited Mr. Sharma.
His illness worsened. Many times when he looked at her, he just smiled, calling softly:

“Meera… are you back?”

She smiled, not denying it.

Once, he held her hand, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks:

“I’m sorry… did I scare you?”

She nodded slightly, then shook her head:

“It’s okay, Dad.”

A year later, on the first anniversary of Raghav’s death, Mr. Sharma was brought to Delhi by his family to attend.
Looking at his son’s portrait, he suddenly whispered:

“Raghav is a good boy. He loves you so much, Anaya.
And so does Dad.”

Anaya held his hand, silent.
The afternoon sun fell, illuminating their faces — a young woman who had lost her husband, an old father living between memory and reality.
Two souls who had once faced each other in misunderstanding, now together in forgiveness.

Sometimes, what we see is not necessarily the truth.
And the truth — sometimes it is hidden in a mind that is gradually forgetting.
Only compassion and forgiveness can save a soul — whether it is a living one, or one lost in faded memories.