The Mysterious Sacks

In a small village on the outskirts of town, everyone knew old man Khai—a 69-year-old, thin and slightly hunched, but with eyes that still shone brightly. He lived alone in a three-room tiled house. His wife had died long ago, and his children, working far away, seldom returned. His whole life had been tied to the fields, and when he grew too weak for farmwork, he turned to growing ornamental plants to sell to passersby.

Every week, Mr. Khai would stop by the hardware store at the entrance of the village to buy a burlap sack. He told the shopkeeper:

—“I use it to carry soil for planting.”

It sounded reasonable enough, since everyone often saw him digging soil and tending to the pots in his yard. But strangely, week after week, the number of sacks he bought kept increasing. One a week, then two, then three… and after three months, he had bought as many as eleven sacks.

Mrs. Hoa, the sharp-eyed shopkeeper, sometimes muttered to her husband:

—“He’s so old, how many plants could he possibly need all those sacks for?”

Her husband laughed it off, telling her not to worry. But one gloomy evening, as storm winds howled, Mr. Khai appeared again, walking quickly. This time, in addition to sacks, he bought a thick chain and a heavy sledgehammer.

—“Sir, what are you buying those for?” asked Mrs. Hoa.

He only gave a faint smile.

—“Household matters, don’t concern yourself.”

But there was something cold in his eyes that made her shiver. A sense of dread overtook her, and she hurriedly called the local police.

The Broken Door

That night, a storm raged. When the police arrived, Mr. Khai’s house was locked tight from the inside. They called out again and again, but no response came. Finally, they pried open the door with a crowbar.

What they saw left everyone stunned.

Inside the dark, damp-smelling house, rows of sacks were neatly stacked on the floor. A few were tightly tied, stained with damp, reddish marks resembling blood. The chain and hammer lay in a corner.

In the middle sat Mr. Khai, hands trembling, eyes vacant. In front of him was an old photo of a woman—his late wife.

—“What have you done?” a policeman demanded.

The old man broke down, sobbing—the anguished cry of someone pushed to the edge.

—“I… I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I just… wanted to keep the memories…”

The Truth Revealed

When the sacks were inspected, they did not contain corpses as Mrs. Hoa had feared—but bones. Dry bones, wrapped haphazardly in old cloth.

The whole village erupted in panic. Rumors spread like wildfire: “He’s a serial killer!” “All these years, he lived alone to hide his crimes!”

But soon, the truth was uncovered. The remains were not of strangers. They were the bones of his wife, Mai, and his two young sons who had died in an air raid decades earlier.

Back then, American bombs had fallen on the village. His wife and children had been killed before his eyes. He buried them hurriedly in the backyard, and as the years passed, few remembered. But whenever storms came, the water eroded the soil, and he feared their graves would be washed away.

So, he dug them up, gathered their remains, and placed them carefully in sacks, keeping them at home until he could transfer them to the communal cemetery.

He bought the chain to lock his door against intruders, and the hammer to break the floor for a new family altar.

—“I just want them to stay close to me, not to be lost again…” he choked out before the police.

Family Conflict

When his surviving children—now living in the city—heard the news, they rushed home. Faces red with shame, they scolded and wept for their father.

—“Why didn’t you tell us, Dad?” the eldest cried. “You kept this all to yourself. The neighbors misunderstood, and you suffered alone, didn’t you?”

Mr. Khai only smiled sadly.

—“You have your own families, your own lives. I didn’t want to trouble you. I’ve spent my life enduring alone.”

His words silenced them. They suddenly realized that in their pursuit of work and life in the city, they had abandoned their father to carry a pain that never healed.

The Ending

The police cleared him of suspicion, but village gossip was harder to erase. Only Mrs. Hoa, the one who had called the authorities, came to him later, took his hand, and said:

—“Please forgive me. I overreacted… but at least now, everyone knows your suffering.”

He nodded, eyes brimming with tears.

Months later, the remains of his wife and children were laid to rest properly in the cemetery. Mr. Khai moved to live with his eldest son in the city. But every evening, he thought of his old house, and of the heavy sacks he once cradled as if they were his life’s memories.

The tale of “the old man who bought sacks” became a story passed around the village. No longer whispered with suspicion, but remembered with teary eyes—not as a crime, but as a family tragedy. The tragedy of an old father who silently carried love and grief his whole life.

A Human Message

Life holds secrets that, if never shared, can become unbearable burdens. Mr. Khai bore the sorrow of losing his wife and children for half a century, to the point of actions that seemed strange and dangerous. But in truth, it was love—and the unending scars of war.

Children, busy with their own lives, often forget their aging parents. And by the time they realize, their parents are already near life’s end. Sometimes, that distance is the greatest tragedy of all.