Three people lay against the wall. Each one on a separate part of the walls
The old man and the child sat on the opposite side. I sat next to the old man. No one had spoken for hours. The food lay untouched on the plates before us, cold now, the steam long since vanished into the gloom. It was not hunger that we lacked. It was the will to eat. How can anyone eat in a place like this — a dark, gloomy chamber where death had already visited twice?
---
In the silence, a voice began to echo. An old, cracked voice — dry as autumn leaves. Then another voice answered: sweet, trembling, the voice of a child trying to be brave.
"Old man," the child said. "Can I ask you something?"
The old man turned his head slowly. His eyes were pale, clouded with something that was not age alone.
"What happened to you?" the child continued. "How did you change? Or… have you really changed at all?"
His voice broke on the last word. His lower lip trembled. A tear gathered in the corner of his eye, catching the faint light from the high windows, but he did not let it fall. Not yet.
The old man looked away. For a long moment, he said nothing. His jaw tightened. His throat moved as if he were swallowing something sharp.
Then he spoke.
"My child… I did not want to be a general. I did not want to start that war. I did not want any of it. But I had no choice. I needed to find food for my wife."
He paused. His hands, resting on his knees, began to tremble. He clenched them into fists, then relaxed them. The trembling did not stop.
"That was what I thought back then. I thought that because of my own hunger — my own greed — I had the right to take the freedom of others. I thought that for the sake of our country, we could do things that no one else would do. Because we were justice. Because we had the right to protect."
His voice cracked. He closed his eyes.
"But Wuren… that was different."
He opened his eyes and looked directly at the child. His gaze was heavy, burdened, as if he were confessing to a priest.
"My child, your city had knowledge that no one else had. Knowledge that no one would ever have. Renmin City was afraid of you. Afraid that one day you might take them over. The greatest kingdom ever built — and they feared it would be taken by a child born in your land. They could not accept that. So they sent us. To eliminate you. To conquer your land. That is the real reason. Not because you were killing children. Not for the reasons they claimed. It was simply fear. Fear that you might become greater than them."
He stopped. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
"After I saw that bloodbath… I could not continue with the army. I had to step down. It was beyond what I could accept. I knew I had done wrong. I wanted redemption. But how could I have it?"
He let out a dry, hollow laugh — a sound that was not a laugh at all.
"You know what the saddest part is? I joined the army to save the life of my wife." He laughed again, bitterly. "The same life I wanted to save — after the war, she left me. Because I had become someone she could not look at in the morning. Someone she did not recognize."
A single tear slid down his wrinkled cheek. He did not wipe it away.
"That is how I became what I am." He turned to the child. "What about you, kid? Tell me about yourself. About your mother."
I do not think the old man truly wanted to know. It was politeness. A way to escape the silence. A way to break the darkness that surrounded us.
---
The child was silent for a long time. His small hands pressed against the stone floor. His fingers curled, then straightened, then curled again.
When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"After the war broke out… after our city was destroyed… we ran away. My mother took me to Renmin City — the capital of your country." He looked at the old man, but there was no anger in his eyes. Only sadness. Deep, endless sadness. "We lived like beggars for so long. But then I needed medicine. I needed to start treatment for my cancer."
He paused. His breath hitched.
"At first, she sold her body." His voice dropped even lower. "When I found out, I could not keep going. I wanted to die. But the money was not enough. So she started… criminal activities."
A tear fell from his eye. Then another. They traced slow paths down his hollow cheeks and dripped onto his shirt.
"In her mind, it was revenge. Revenge for what your people did to us. For the pain we felt when you destroyed our city. When you killed our family. That was her way of taking back something. But… taking revenge on who? On people who did not even know the war was for an unjust reason? On the ignorant?"
He wiped his nose with the back of his small hand.
---
When the child said the word *ignorant*, something stirred inside me.
I thought: *Does ignorance count as an excuse? If you do not know, are you innocent?*
No. Ignorance is not an excuse. It never has been. It never will be. If you do not know, you are still responsible. Who stopped you from going to look? Who stopped you from seeking the truth before you gave judgment? You must know the reality of a thing before you act. Ignorance is not innocence. Ignorance is a choice. A lazy, cowardly choice.
And it deserves punishment.
---
The old man turned to me. His eyes were wet, but his face was soft.
"Hey, kid," he said. "How about you?"
I felt his gaze on my skin like a weight. I did not know what to say. Of course, I was not going to tell them what I had done. Why should I? A secret that another person knows is no longer a secret. I knew what I had done. I knew if I was wrong or right.
I looked down at my hands. They were pale in the dim light. The chain around my ankle gleamed dully.
"For me," I said slowly, "I can only say this: I trusted someone I should not have trusted. And that trust made me who I am. Right now, I am facing the consequences of my choices."
That was all. Nothing more.
---
The old man smiled. It was a peaceful smile — gentle, almost fatherly. For a moment, he looked less like a broken general and more like a man who had made peace with his ghosts. He looked at the child. Then at me. Then at the food.
He reached out with his bare hand, grabbed a chunk of rice, and brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly. Swallowed.
A few moments later, the child picked up a piece of bread. Then I did the same. One by one, we began to eat. Not with hunger. Not with joy. Just the mechanical act of survival. It was not a family dinner. It was a meal between prisoners.
The only sounds were the soft chewing, the occasional clink of a plate, and the slow, steady breathing of three people who had nothing left to say.
---
Then — a sound from the door.
The open door. The door that had never closed.
Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
Three large men entered. They wore masks — dark cloth that hid everything except their eyes. In their hands, they carried a rope. Black. Thick. The kind of rope used to blind a man before he is taken somewhere he does not want to go.
They approached me.
Fear began to rise from my feet, climbing up my legs, my stomach, my chest. It reached my brain, and I froze. I could not move. I could not speak.
They grabbed me like a child. Their hands were iron.
They pulled me toward the door. The chain around my ankle pulled back — a fight between man and metal. The chain won for a moment, holding me in place. Then two of the masked men went to the wall, pulled the pin that held the chain, and freed me.
I was dragged across the floor. The rope went around my face — tight, rough, blinding. Darkness swallowed my eyes.
*Crack. Crack. Crack.* The chain followed me, scraping against the stone.
No one spoke. Not Jeffrey. Not the child. Not the old man.
Just before the rope completely covered my eyes, I looked back. One last look.
I saw Jeffrey. His face was calm, but his lips moved silently — perhaps a prayer, perhaps a goodbye. I saw the child. His small hand was raised, as if reaching for me. I saw the old man. He nodded once. A slow, sad nod.
A wise man. A man who had fought battles and ended with a peaceful soul. A child who still carried hope.
How was I supposed to find them again? How was I supposed to find hope and wisdom in this darkness? The hope of a child. The wisdom of an old man.
I had lost what was precious. The most precious thing I had in this dark, silent prison.
They were not my friends. Not really. But they were more than that. They were a light that kept me alive. I had only known them for a few hours — but it felt like weeks. No. Years.
---
I was blind. I could not see anything. Only sounds.
I heard the door on the opposite side shut behind me. But the black cloth over my eyes was thin enough to let through a faint glow — bright, painful, like staring at the sun through a veil.
I heard voices. Many voices. A crowd. The sound of people talking, shouting — like a baseball game, distant and chaotic.
The three men dragged me. One on each side, pulling my arms. My feet scraped the floor. The chain followed, grinding against the stone. I felt something warm on my heels. Blood. My feet were bleeding.
Then they stopped.
A few minutes of dragging. But it felt like hours.
---
And then — a voice.
A voice I would recognize among a thousand. Among ten thousand. The voice of the most loved person in my life.
My mother.
*"Hello, my child."*
Her voice was cracked. Broken. As if she had been crying for days. As if every word cost her the last of her strength.
I lost my mind.
I screamed. I shouted. I thrashed against the men holding me. I wanted to kill something. Destroy something. Anything. The most loved person in my life was in front of me, and I could not see her. I could only hear her pain.
The men grabbed my hands. Held them tight. I could not move.
*"Mother!"* I screamed. *"Mother!"*
No answer.
They dragged me again. Left. Right. Left. Right. I never stopped screaming. I kicked. I fought. I wanted to break free. I wanted to see her. I wanted to know what was happening.
Then — *boom*.
The sound I had heard more than five times now. The sound of a door opening.
---
They threw me inside. But this time, they took off my chains — the iron around my ankles and wrists. The metal fell away with a clatter that echoed off the walls. I was free from the physical bonds.
But another chain remained.
It was not made of iron. It did not clink or scrape against the floor. It was heavier than any metal. It was the chain of despair — wrapped around my chest, squeezing my lungs, dragging me down into a darkness I could not escape. The chain of not knowing. Where was my mother? What was happening to her? Was she still alive? Had Gu done something to her? The questions pulled at me like weights, each one heavier than the last.
And beneath that, the chain of ignorance. The cruelest chain of all. I did not know. I could not know. And that not-knowing was a rope around my throat, strangling me slowly.
They pulled the sack from my face, and BOOM
.......
Darkness again.
I blinked. My eyes adjusted. I was alone in a room — the same size as the first, but different. No chains on the walls. No old man. No child. No smiling man.
Just me.
And the silence.
And the chains I could not see.
..............
"Mother ?"