Whenever I hear the sound of rain at night,
the echo of that bell returns somewhere deep within my chest.
In this new city, no one knows who I am.
When I walk along the bright streets,
the past becomes nothing more than a mirage.
People are busy.
They do not even care to remember each other's names.
And yet,
at some moment, a gaze pierces through me.
A stranger's face—
but with the same look as those eyes from the island.
Each time, my breath grows shallow.
The more crowded the place,
the deeper the loneliness becomes.
After I began working,
everyone seemed to expect something from me.
Appearance, voice, a single gesture—
all of it defined their impression.
A smile could be a weapon,
or a chain.
Before I took a hand offered to me,
I had already imagined
the weight of its grip.
Kindness always stood side by side
with control.
Still, I continued to work.
Because I had to live.
I read people's desires,
chose my words carefully,
aligned the lines of my emotions.
To act sincerely
while revealing nothing of my heart—
that was the only defense I had.
And I no longer felt wounded
by the fact that the "me" reflected in their eyes
was not truly me.
If that coldness is called maturity,
then perhaps that is what I've become.
One night, I walked along the seaside road.
The distant waves overlapped
with the sound of the tide from that island.
The lighthouse light briefly touched my feet.
In that moment, I saw my shadow
stretch long and thin across the ground.
I had tried to escape,
and ended up nowhere.
Even so,
I was still standing.
And somehow,
that alone felt like salvation.