It was past midnight in a small town when Robu slipped into the small house of an elderly woman. Known for his quick hands and nimble feet, he believed this would be an easy target. The rumours had it that she lived alone and kept money stashed somewhere. As he made his way into the living room, he glanced at a few silver ornaments on the shelf.
Just as he reached out to grab them, a sharp voice pierced the silence.
“Do you really think you need that more than I do?”
Startled, Robu turned to see the old woman, not in fear or shock, but sitting in her chair, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. Her voice had an authority he hadn’t expected.
“Why are you just sitting there?” he growled, unnerved. “I could take whatever I want, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”
She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You think this is about what you can take? This isn’t about my silver, Robu. It’s about you.”
Robu’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”
“I know more than that,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “I know that whatever brought you here isn’t really greed. It’s pain. You’re hurt, broken.”
Robu scoffed, trying to regain his edge. “Save it, old woman. I don’t need your pity.”
Her eyes sparkled with fire as she stood up. “You don’t need pity, Robu. You need truth. You’ve been running for so long that you don’t even know who you are anymore.”
The confidence in her voice rattled him. There was something unnervingly powerful about her presence, her refusal to react with fear or weakness. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.
“Maybe not,” she said, stepping closer, “but I know there’s a story behind every face. And yours, Robu, is written in anger, in sadness. But you’re not a bad man. You’ve just forgotten who you were before the world hurt you.”
The words struck a chord. Robu hadn’t thought about his past in years, hadn’t let himself. But now, faced with this woman who seemed to see through him, something broke inside. He clenched his fists, his voice shaking. “You think you’re smart? You think you know my life? You don’t know what it’s like to be abandoned. To watch your mother starve while you’re helpless. My father left us, left us to rot, and I had to do whatever it took to survive!”
Tears burned in his eyes, but he fought them back. “You think stealing is about money? It’s never been about that. It’s about power. It’s about not being the weak one anymore.”
The woman’s expression softened, but her voice remained strong. “You’ve been trying to reclaim your power through theft, Robu. But you’re just giving it away—every time you steal, you’re still the child, still powerless.”
Robu stared at her, his anger dissolving into confusion. He had spent years running from that child, hiding behind the facade of a criminal. But here, in this tiny house, he felt exposed.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” he whispered. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
The woman moved to the kitchen, her steps graceful and calm. She returned with a cup of tea and handed it to him. “You can start by making a choice. Every day, you have two choices: to build or to destroy. Right now, you’ve chosen destruction, because it’s all you’ve known. But you can build, too.”
Robu took the tea, unsure of what to say. “And how do I build? I’ve burned too many bridges.”
“No bridge is beyond repair if you’re willing to put in the work,” she said firmly. “You’ll find work—not glamorous, but honest. Each day, you’ll earn, and each week, you’ll come back to me and tell me what you’ve done. I’ll keep track of your progress. But more importantly, you’ll learn to forgive yourself.”
Robu scoffed. “Forgive myself? For what?”
“For being human,” she replied. “You’ve carried the weight of your past for so long that it’s crushing you. But the past isn’t your master unless you let it be. You have to free yourself from it.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled a list. “Here. Start small. Find work—any work—and bring me proof every week. Each time you come back, we’ll talk, and we’ll add a new goal.”
Robu hesitated, then slowly nodded. He left that night with nothing in his hands but a piece of paper and an idea he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine: CHANGE.
—
Weeks passed, and Robu returned every seven days, showing her the small sums of money he earned by washing cars, carrying loads at the market, even sweeping the streets. Every visit, she would add a new goal: saving a little money, staying away from his old gang, learning to read and write.
“You’re building,” she would say, smiling. “Brick by brick.”
As the months rolled on, Robu found himself not just earning, but growing. He began reading books she lent him, and they discussed them in the evenings. He even started helping others in the market, offering advice to young boys who, like him, once teetered on the edge.
It wasn’t easy, and there were days he stumbled. But each time, the woman was there, pushing him back on the path with her unrelenting compassion and steady guidance.
One day, after nearly six months, Robu returned to her house and placed a small bag of money on the table. “I don’t need this,” he said, “but I wanted to give it back. To you.”
The woman smiled. “You’ve already given me something much more valuable. You’ve rebuilt yourself.”
Robu nodded, a strange peace settling over him. The hole inside him—the one he had tried to fill with crime—was finally healing. The woman had given him the greatest gift: the power to change his own story.
And as he walked away from her house for the last time, he knew
he would never need to steal again.