**Peace and blessings to you all ✨** I extend a warm welcome to everyone who's been closely following this story, especially to this amazing community—cheers to you! 😘 Today, we will explore Richard's final actions and the subsequent events involving him, his girlfriend, and his late mother. This segment promises to be captivating as it signifies the conclusion of the conflict. I understand your hearts may feel heavy 💔 For the wicked, there is no peace, nor mercy, so let’s immerse ourselves...

**"Continuity of Love Is Blind”**

![InShot_20250630_212004299.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmWHnftew1SXi5utcYPWkBtvtkVsq9C64UbTpx7DV2BRCp/InShot_20250630_212004299.jpg)[source](https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/link) *(All this pictures inside this thumbnail was gotten from freepik and edited with inshot app)* Richard had no memory of when he collapsed or how long he lay on the ground. His body convulsed uncontrollably, mumbling incoherent words, with one constant thought ringing in his mind: “Return.” But return to where? To the past? To the womb? To the grave? When he finally managed to rise, his clothes were soaked with sweat and dirt. Despite a broken phone, it couldn’t erase the tragedy; the screen repeatedly showcased her eyes—his mother’s eyes—relentless and unblinking. Richard staggered home like a drunken man, passing neighbors who whispered and made the sign of the cross. Some believed he was cursed, others thought he was insane, and some even suggested he had sold his soul. The only ones who knew the truth were Richard and the ghost that now haunted him. Every night, his mother drew near—not just in dreams, but in reality. Her scent wafted through the air, her voice resonated from the kitchen, the television turned on to her favorite soap operas, the gas stove ignited itself, and her picture on the wall appeared to shed fresh tears. He attempted to pray, but the Bible felt like it was on fire in his hands. His cries were so intense that neighbors called the police. When they arrived, they found nothing—no blood, no ghost, and no evidence—just Richard sobbing in a corner with his shattered phone. In pursuit of answers, he sought out the pastor. The elderly man listened carefully before asking, “What did you do with her body?” Richard’s lips quivered. “I entrusted her to them... They assured me she would be buried peacefully.” The pastor leaned closer. “There is no peace where blood is traded for vanity. You must return her to the earth with your own hands.” Richard gasped. “I don’t know where they took her!” “Then you must find them, or live under a curse.” He began his search, reaching out to the same number that had lured him months earlier. A sweet female voice replied, “Mr. Rich, we don’t offer refunds.” “I want her back!” he yelled. “Please!” The line went silent. Then he received a text: “Come alone. 1 a.m. Behind the old slaughterhouse.” Richard couldn’t sleep that night, his heart trembled with anticipation and dread. Upon arriving, what he saw nearly shattered him. There she was, in a body bag, bound and breathless, waiting. A man in black stepped out of the shadows. “You have one chance. You dig, you bury, you confess. Otherwise, she won’t find peace, and you’ll be forever restless.” **Richard sank to his knees, desperately digging as tears mixed with the soil, creating a grave for the woman who had given him life, whom he had repaid with death.** As he laid her to rest and covered her, despair engulfed him. He screamed into the night, his voice a fractured trumpet, before falling silent. No wind, no ghost, no whisper—just quiet. He returned home at dawn. The air felt lighter, and the house no longer smelled of blood. Opening the fridge, he wept at the sight of the meal his mother used to prepare—rice and stew, still warm and untouched. Then he noticed a note by the pot, written in her hand: “I loved you, even in death.” Richard fainted, but fate had more in store for him. Weeks passed. He secluded himself, sold his phone, donated his clothes, and took a job at a children’s orphanage, seeking healing. One day, a traumatized, silent girl arrived at the orphanage, clutching a phone reminiscent of his old one. Richard’s heart raced. He gently inquired, “Where did you get that?” She whispered, “A woman gave it to me. She told me to tell you—‘She upgraded me too.’” Richard froze. He took the phone and scrolled through the gallery. One image: Precious, bound, beaten, blood trickling from her lips, with his mother’s ghost behind her, smiling, and a final message below the photo: “She upgraded. I upgraded too.” THE END. Written by: Chidera Daniel Ben (@dannyben39)🖊️🖊️🖊️ |

CONCLUSIONS

|-| Thus we wrap up this tale. You may wonder why Richard's mother spared her son. Indeed, that is one of the lessons we must grasp: the power of forgiveness, no matter the circumstances. Furthermore, we must remain vigilant to avoid being deceived like Richard, as mistakes can be hard to rectify. 📌 You can as well follow me for more interesting stories ✨ 📍My Regards 😎 @steemkidss