The city carried on, oblivious.
Buildings stood tall, streets were crowded, and the sun rose and set, yet none of it acknowledged the girl who had once wandered its corners with hope in her eyes. The humans she had trusted, the hands she had reached for, continued their lives as if she had never existed.
Inside the prison, the echoes of her absence lingered faintly. Guards went through their routines, prisoners whispered, laughed, and fought, yet the space she had occupied felt hollow. It was as if the world had momentarily held its breath—and then forgot.
Lucky's essence, however, did not vanish. It hovered in the quiet moments, in the dark spaces where her fears and dreams had lived. She remembered the river, the fleeting sunlight on her skin, the touch of the first person who had deceived her. She remembered the heartbreak, the betrayal, the long, unrelenting loneliness.
Even in death, she felt the weight of a world that could not understand her, could not honor her struggle. Humans, she realized, were cruel not always by intent but by indifference. And it was this indifference that had worn her down, day by day, until she could no longer bear the weight of existence.
Yet, for a brief, fragile moment, there was calm. The ache in her chest softened, replaced by the quiet knowledge that she had tried. She had lived, loved, trusted, and endured.
The world moved on, silent and uncaring, but Lucky's story—her suffering, her courage, her heartbreak—remained suspended in the corners, like a whisper that refused to be forgotten.