My packages kept disappearing. At first, I blamed delivery errors. Then I installed a security camera. One Tuesday, the footage confirmed my worst fear: it wasn’t a stranger—it was the quiet lady from apartment 3B, someone I’d exchanged polite nods with. My anger boiled. She had been stealing from me, repeatedly.
I reported it to the building manager. Two days later, she was evicted. Justice, I thought. My packages weren’t recovered, but I had made her regret it.
Weeks later, a letter arrived by mistake. It told a different story: she was destitute, alone, grieving her son, struggling to survive. My “justice” had stripped her of the last of her dignity. Shortly after, she was found dead in a park, alone, from exposure.
I surrounded myself with my recovered packages, but all I could hear was the echoing silence of apartment 3B. And for the first time, I understood what true regret really meant—and it was mine.