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2 Sec ago - The chipped porcelain mug warmed my trembling hands, the Earl Grey doing little to soothe the chill that had settled deep in my bones. They say getting old is a privilege denied to many, but some days, like today, it feels more like a curse. My name is Arthur, and I was a better man… once.

My life stretches out behind me, a tapestry woven with threads of love, loss, and regret. Eleanor, my Ellie, was the sun in my sky, the very air I breathed. We met young, foolishly in love, and built a life that most only dream of. Two beautiful children, a cozy cottage nestled in the Cotswolds, Sunday roasts that filled the house with laughter. I was a carpenter then, my hands calloused but capable of crafting beautiful things, just like the life we were building.

But pride, that insidious beast, whispered in my ear. Success came, then more success, and I began chasing it, mistaking ambition for happiness. The workshop became a factory, the cottage a mansion, and my hands, once skilled with wood, became adept at signing contracts and shaking hands with men whose smiles never reached their eyes. Eleanor tried to warn me, her gentle voice pleading with me to remember what truly mattered. I dismissed her concerns as the anxieties of a simple woman, unable to comprehend the complexities of the business world. How I regret that arrogance now.

The business thrived, but my family withered. My children grew up in my absence, their milestones marked not by my presence, but by hastily scribbled notes and expensive gifts. Eleanor, the heart of our family, slowly faded. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a quiet sorrow that I was too blind to see, too preoccupied to address.

Then came the crash. Not a financial one, though that followed soon after, but an emotional one. Eleanor, my vibrant, loving Ellie, was diagnosed with a disease that slowly, cruelly, stole her from me. I watched, helpless, as the woman I loved more than life itself slipped away. In those final months, I finally understood. The empire I had built meant nothing. The accolades, the wealth, the power, all dust and ashes compared to the love I had so carelessly neglected.

She held my hand, her touch weak but full of forgiveness. "Arthur," she whispered, her voice a fragile echo, "be a better man."

Her words, her dying wish, became my lifelong torment. I tried, God knows I tried. I rebuilt my relationship with my estranged children, though the scars of neglect remained. I devoted myself to charitable work, hoping to atone for my past sins. But the emptiness remained, a hollow ache in my chest, a constant reminder of the man I could have been, the life we could have had.

Now, as I sit here, the twilight of my life approaching, the scent of Earl Grey mingles with the bitter taste of regret. The porcelain mug trembles, mirroring the tremor in my soul. I was a better man… once. But once is not enough. And that, my friend, is the saddest story of all.






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