#13

He was a murderer, a thief, a liar —
one who had tricked gods and devils alike.
After years inside prison,
he was finally set free.
Left to contemplate what he’d done, he tried to be better, tried to be new.
But the marks he left on the world
were things not easily forgotten — or forgiven.

He set out on a journey toward redemption.
And every road he reached led only to rejection.
To the many, he was a blight —
they shunned him, drove him off —
even hurled insults as he passed.
The sins of his past, though paid for, clung to him like smoke.

Still, he continued.

One afternoon, on one of the hottest days,
he found a chair beneath an oak tree,
in a quiet corner of the park.
There he sat down to rest.
People passed by with narrowed eyes and curled lips;
if not for fear of retaliation, they might’ve harmed him.

He sighed.

Maybe it was time to give up.

He had tried.
He was trying — harder than ever —
yet the world stayed exactly as it had always been.
A constant.
Unforgiving.
They never looked past the man he once was.

What goodness is there for me,
when the world has none to spare?

He looked at his calloused hands —
the hands of a worker,
though the stench of the past lingered.
Yes, it bothered him.
But he was trying.
And now he wanted to give up —

A young boy approached him.
The boy studied his scars, his bruises,
his quiet, heavy life.

“What’s your name?” the child asked.

The man noticed a strange glimmer in the boy’s eyes.

“My name is—”

“I’m sorry! Did I disturb your rest? You just looked… fascinating.”

Fascinating.
A word he had never thought would describe him.

“It’s fine,” the man said. “I was feeling a little lonely, anyway.
Would you like to hear a story?”

Before he could speak,
a pair of hands grabbed the boy’s collar and yanked him back.

“Oh! Mom, I want to hear the nice man’s story!”

The man didn’t listen to the mother’s reply.
He already knew the tone.
He smiled and looked away.
It wasn’t his business.

“I’ll come back, mister!” the boy shouted.

The man turned.
There were tears in the boy’s eyes.

“Promise me you’ll still be here when I get back, okay?”

The shouting, the crying,
and the faint sound of blows
echoed through the park.

The man — who had been ready to unbecome —
felt something shift again in his chest.
Without knowing it, he’d made a promise.

He breathed deeply.
Once more.

Only the broken,
and the innocent,
could truly understand each other.

That, he thought,
as he continued his rest.

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