I turned 61 this year. My wife passed away eight years ago after a long battle with illness. Since then, life has been quiet—and lonely.
My children are all grown, with families of their own. They visit once a month—just long enough to drop off some money and my medications before hurrying off again.
I don’t blame them. Life is busy, and I understand that. But on cold, rainy nights, when the wind howls and raindrops hammer against the tin roof, I lie in bed and feel like the loneliest person in the world.
Then one day, while scrolling through Facebook, I saw her—my high school sweetheart.
Back in the day, I adored her. She had the kind of smile that could brighten a room, eyes full of laughter, and long, flowing hair. I was preparing for my university entrance exams when her parents arranged her marriage to an older man living down South.
And just like that, we lost touch.
Over 40 years passed before fate brought us back together. She had been widowed for five years and was living with her youngest son, who was often away for work.
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We started chatting online, slowly catching up. Then came phone calls, and soon, coffee meetups. Before I knew it, I was regularly visiting her house with small gifts—fruits, pastries, and vitamins for her joints.
One day, half-teasing, I said,
“Why don’t the two of us old souls get married and keep each other company?”
Her eyes instantly filled with tears. I panicked and tried to laugh it off, but she simply smiled and nodded.
And so, at 61, I remarried—this time, to the first woman I ever loved.
Our wedding was small and sweet. I wore a brown brocade tunic. She looked graceful in a white silk áo dài, her hair pinned neatly with a pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came, all remarking how we looked like young lovers again.
And honestly, I felt young again.
Later that evening, after we cleared the last dishes and shut the front gate, it was nearly 10 p.m. I warmed up some milk for her and turned off the lights. Our wedding night had arrived—something I never thought I’d experience again in my lifetime.
But just as I began to help her out of her dress…
I froze.
My heart dropped.
What I saw left me stunned and heartbroken.
Beneath the neckline of her dress, just under her left collarbone, was a large scar—old and jagged, but unmistakably from a serious surgery.
I gently touched it. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She pulled back slightly. Her face paled.
“I was going to tell you,” she whispered.
“Tell me what?”
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She stepped away, wrapping a shawl around herself.
“That’s not just a scar,” she said quietly. “It’s where they implanted the device.”
I stared. “Device?”
She took a shaky breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hands trembled.
“Thirty years ago,” she began, “I was diagnosed with a rare heart condition. My husband—well, my former husband—was working for a private government contractor. They were researching a medical chip… one that could monitor and stabilize vital functions, even detect emotional distress. I was dying, and he volunteered me as a candidate.”
I sank into the chair near the window, speechless.
“You’re saying… you were part of some kind of experiment?”
She nodded. “It saved my life. But they never let me leave the program completely. I wasn’t supposed to remarry. I wasn’t supposed to reconnect with anyone from my past. I was still being monitored.”
I felt dizzy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to. I just—” she choked up. “I didn’t think anyone would ever love me again. Not after everything. But then you came back.”
A silence fell between us, broken only by the distant sound of wind rustling the bamboo outside.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told you sooner.”
I got up and walked to her. I took her hands gently in mine.
“You should have,” I whispered. “But I still meant what I said. Two old souls, keeping each other company.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Even now? Even after all this?”
I nodded. “Even now.”
But deep down, I couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in my chest.
If she was still being monitored…
Then who else was watching us?
That night, I barely slept.
She lay beside me, calm and warm, her breathing soft and even. But my mind refused to rest. The words she had said kept echoing:
“I wasn’t supposed to remarry. I wasn’t supposed to reconnect with anyone from my past.”
What did that mean? Who were they? And more importantly—were we in danger?
The next morning, I got up early and made breakfast. Pancakes, just like we used to share at the old café near school. She smiled when she saw them, but I could tell—she knew I hadn’t forgotten last night.
“I don’t want to live in fear,” I finally said.
“I don’t want that either.”
“Then let’s stop hiding,” I told her. “Tell me everything. No more secrets.”
She hesitated, but finally nodded.
“After my surgery, they kept me in a special care unit for nearly a year. The device in my chest—it doesn’t just regulate my heart. It stores biometric data, stress levels… even audio snippets. I know it sounds insane. But it was a prototype.”
“Is it still… active?”
She looked away. “I think so.”
Suddenly, a knock rattled the front door.
We both froze.
It was too early for guests. Too early for mail. And no one ever came unannounced anymore.
I went to the window and peeked through the curtains.
A black sedan was parked in front of the house.
Three men in charcoal suits stood by the gate.
One of them held a small leather briefcase. Another was speaking into an earpiece.
The third… was staring directly at our window.
I turned to her, heart pounding. “Are they—?”
She nodded before I could finish. “They’re from the program.”
I grabbed her hand. “Do they know we’re married?”
“They might now.”
Another knock—firmer this time.
I felt like we were being hunted in our own home.
“What do they want?” I whispered.
She looked down, voice trembling. “They want the chip back.”
