Three months after the iron gate closed behind me, I learned one thing: freedom does not always mean coming back to life. Sometimes, it only means having more space to feel alone.
The morning was still dark when I stood by the roadside, gripping a broom with a cracked handle. A faded orange uniform hung loosely on my body.
Road dust clung to my skin, mixed with sweat that hadn't dried since yesterday. I swept without really seeing what I was sweeping—dry leaves, sand, trash, or perhaps fragments of other people's lives, lives far luckier than mine.
People passed by. Some covered their noses. Some pretended not to see me. No one looked into my eyes—blue eyes that were once the subject of whispers, now regarded only as strange, not worth holding a gaze for too long.
'Blue-Eyed Monster,' they called me.
And monsters do not deserve attention.
By eight in the morning, my hands were trembling. Not from the cold, but from hunger. I leaned the broom against the wall and walked quickly toward a small stall at the end of the street. Not to eat—I had no money for that—but to change jobs.
Behind the narrow kitchen, I stood in front of a sink full of dirty dishes. Murky water, the stench of leftover food, and the clatter of plates became my companions for the next three hours.
My hands burned from cheap soap and old wounds that had never fully healed. Every time another stack of dirty dishes arrived, I accepted it in silence—no complaints, no words. I had long grown used to swallowing everything alone.
"Careful, it might break," someone said flatly.
I nodded. I always nodded. As if obedience might someday make the world stop stepping on me. A habit I carried from long ago—from when I believed obedience could be repaid with affection.
By midday, I moved again. Delivering water gallons. Wiping tables. Cleaning vomit from public toilets.
Five jobs a day were not a choice, but a necessity. If I stopped even one, I would have no place to sleep tonight—only a cold floor and a cracked ceiling in the narrow room I called home.
"Thank you."
My cold, trembling hands received my pay, and only then did relief wash over me. Tonight… I could eat.
Between my steps, memories came uninvited. The sound of a cell door closing. The damp smell of prison walls. Endless nights without news, without a name calling for me. Not one of them came. Not one asked whether I was still alive.
They say family is a place to return to.
But for me, family was the place where I was abandoned the longest.
Evening fell as I returned to the street—this time not sweeping, but collecting trash from the gutter.
My hands were filthy, my clothes soaked, my back felt as though it might snap. I saw my reflection in a puddle—an unclear face, blue eyes that felt increasingly unfamiliar. I barely recognized myself.
I let out a soft laugh. Not because it was funny, but because I was exhausted.
Night arrived without mercy. I stood behind a small restaurant, cleaning the remains of the kitchen before closing.
The smell of oil and smoke clung to my hair. My legs ached, but I remained standing. Sitting for too long scared me—afraid my body would give up first.
"This is for you."
When the daily wage was slipped into my hand, it wasn't much. Enough for one meal and a night's rent. Nothing left for dreams—let alone hope.
"Thank you," I said, my trembling hands gripping the brown envelope tightly.
My eyes sparkled. At least today, I would eat—and that alone was enough to make me happy.
On my way home, I stopped. Steam rose from a medium-sized pot; a man was selling sweet potatoes from a large cart. Without thinking, I approached him.
"U-uncle… one steamed sweet potato, please."
"Alright," the man replied. "Want some cheese on it?"
Selina shook her head. "Just the plain one, thank you."
That was how my days had gone for the past few months.
On my way home, I passed families laughing behind the windows of warm houses. I wasn't jealous. I just felt empty.
Once, I wanted to be part of that.
Now, I only wanted to survive until tomorrow.
On the bridge, I walked through the night, holding the hot steamed sweet potato. My stomach was full, and my hands were warm.
But…
Selina stopped at the second bite and turned her head. From above the bridge, the calm lake flowed beneath.
What is life actually for…?
The person who was supposed to wait for my return had long since gone. Then what was all of this for?
Selina's eyes glassed over, yet no tears fell. She only gripped the sweet potato more tightly as it grew cold.
"If she were here… would she be the same as them?"
Her voice was carried away by the wind, unanswered. She smiled bitterly. "After everything… how could she still be angry?"
Selina continued her way home in emptiness, blaming herself for what had happened five years ago.
Inside the narrow room, I lay down without turning on the light. Darkness felt more honest—yet also terrifying.
Because truly, there was no light except a small candle, shrinking, nearly spent.
I stared at the ceiling and asked myself—not God, not anyone—whether I was still human, or if I truly had become the monster they claimed I was.
Three months after my release, I no longer hoped to be noticed. No longer waited to be saved. I worked. I grew tired. I lived. That was all.
And perhaps, for a monster like me, that was already more than enough.
Though my body was exhausted, I had no desire to close my eyes. Selina slept only near dawn and woke when the sun rose.
Even for sleep, it seemed the world refused to grant her a peaceful life.
Lost in such thoughts, Selina suddenly grimaced. No sound escaped her lips, yet the pain she felt was unbearable.
Cold sweat drenched her body. Her left hand gripped her right tightly, as if trying to transfer medicine, whispering, "Everything will be alright."
But no matter how many calming words she murmured, the pain did not fade.
With great effort, she finally rose and reached for the remedy she believed could heal her.
Selina could only massage it with sunflower oil she had bought from her wages collecting scrap.
She stared at her swollen right hand, her gaze fixed on the long scar stretching across the back of it.
Even without light, the night's reflection was enough to reveal the dark past clenched in her grasp.
As the pain refused to subside, she staggered, grabbed her worn, hole-ridden jacket, and stepped out of her shabby home.
The cold air struck her fragile body instantly. Her ungloved hand was left to freeze, battered by falling snow.
This was how Selina punished herself, hoping the pain would fade faster. The colder it became, the more numb her hand grew—until the pain slowly died.
In the middle of the snowstorm, Selina opened her jacket and let the white flakes cover her as she walked along the empty road, waiting for sunrise.
She didn't know how long she had walked, only that she had gone too far—and her hand no longer hurt.
She put her jacket back on and turned to head home, when she noticed a strange man sitting alone on a bench. The clock had already crept into the early hours of dawn.
Until now, she had always been the only one wandering until morning, returning as the sun rose.
Selina wanted to ignore him, but his slumped body was nearly buried in snow—no shoes, no jacket, no gloves.
A thin short-sleeved shirt and knee-length shorts. In weather like this, anyone would freeze to death.
A truly pitiful homeless man.
She passed him, then stopped with a soft sigh.
"Wear this," Selina said, offering her worn jacket and gloves. "I-it's not much, but it's far better if you use them."
She didn't know why she offered them, but compared to herself—miserable as she was—someone else was even worse off.
"Find shelter somewhere warm. The snow's going to get heavier."
"I don't have a home," the man finally replied, without looking at her.
Selina smiled, understanding. "Go under Juan Bridge. There's a small passage nearby where you can take shelter. And use these."
She placed the jacket and gloves on the bench.
"What about you?" he asked.
Selina paused, then answered, "I'm used to it."
After that, she left without looking back. To her, the jacket and gloves mattered more to him than to herself.
When Selina arrived home, she lay down on a torn mat and eventually fell asleep as dawn approached two hours later.
Meanwhile, the man she had pitied remained where he was.
The man waiting inside the car nearly cried when he saw a woman approach his master.
He had been terrified she would lose her life after disturbing the young master.
But instead, he saw something else.
The master returned, wearing the jacket the woman had given him.
"Sir Elias, I apologize for the inconvenience. I will ensure no one disturbs you again in the future."
Elias did not respond. He stared silently at the brown envelope inside the car.
That woman was truly foolish.
Earlier, when he was about to throw away the filthy jacket, something had fallen from its pocket. Inside the brown envelope were several bills.
It seemed she had just been paid.
"Find the address of that old woman and return this envelope."
The order was difficult to accept—hard, yet impossible to refuse. He knew Sir Elias had been disturbed by her presence, but couldn't this be let go just this once?
"Sir Elias, must we really go this far? That old woman is fragile and knows nothing…"
Elias lifted his gaze sharply at the man behind the wheel. "Just do it!"
He ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the window. "Did I tell you to do anything bad? What did I order you to do?"
"To find her address and return the brown envelope, sir."
"Then you know!"
But, the problem was, that envelope was likely the woman's lifeline.
And he understood Sir Elias's nature—he never tolerated being disturbed when he sat in the park on those particular dates.