At my Guardian's gaze.

We hired a watchman to protect our home during the quiet, vulnerable hours of the night—a shield against thieves and robbers. But soon enough, my child’s pencils and pens began to disappear. When we confronted the old watchman, he barely muttered a defense, shame etched on his face. His failure was clear, so we started searching for a replacement.

Then came a middle-aged man, bold and confident. He didn’t mince words, laying bare the old watchman’s many failings and pledging to keep our home safe. Charismatic and seemingly trustworthy, he won our approval.

But trouble followed swiftly. One day, my child said pencils had vanished again. The new watchman’s response was sharp: "You're worried about a few pencils, the kind you can buy for pennies at any shop, right? Meanwhile, I'm out here keeping the wolves from the door, fighting the unseen things that would truly ruin you. You're welcome to focus on the small things, but I'm focused on the bigger picture. After all, what's a little bit of graphite compared to everything you have?"
Around the neighborhood, whispers grew. Which was worse—the loss of a pencil, or ignoring a bigger threat?

Then, my wife’s cherished jewelry went missing. When she raised her voice, the watchman sneered, "Now, let's take a deep breath and be honest with each other. That jewelry—did you earn it with your own two hands? Or was it a gift from someone else's generosity? It's a funny thing, isn't it, how we complain about losing things we didn't work for in the first place? Let's not be cruel. It's only right that hard-earned treasure belongs to those who earn it." The community buzzed with debate—was she wrong to demand justice?

Not long after, my elderly father cried foul—his pension money had vanished. The watchman lashed out, "I'm sorry, but with all due respect, what exactly is your contribution here? Look at your son—he's a good man, working day and night to keep this home afloat. He's the backbone of this family. Yet you, you sit here with your hands out, crying over money you didn't even work for. Let's not get in his way. He's the one who deserves our respect." Many sided with the watchman, dismissing my father as powerless and without a voice.

Then the unthinkable: my property documents disappeared. I confronted the watchman, expecting answers. Instead, he looked down on me coldly: "You're a brave man to stand here and question me. And a foolish one. Remember your place. Remember whose presence allows you to stand on this ground, under this roof, breathing this air. Be grateful. Be very, very grateful." Rumors flew, suspicion swirled—did the family harbor secrets?

The darkest day came when my son was killed. I demanded to know the watchman’s role in this tragedy. He simply pointed to the bloody tracks on the floor, the chilling paw prints leading to the torn carcass of a wild wolf. With that, the watchman, now a 75-year-old man, looked me dead in the eye, without a trace of emotion, and said, "My work here is done. The nights are quiet, the streets are safe, and the time has come for a loyal servant to get his rest. I've done all that could be asked of me, and now I'm going to take a long, much-deserved rest." He turned, and without a backward glance, walked into the silent night, leaving us with his peace. 

- The_RO_Ideology.