The sound of the door closing had been her last contact with Juglian. She had gone to her room, but her heart remained in the hallway where she had left him, curled on the floor like a child. Her rage, once a suit of armor, was now a fragile thing. She had felt like a shadow, a ghost, a nameless creature. She had felt exactly like the man she had seen on his knees. Her anger had transformed into an infinite compassion.
She sat on her bed, her body an empty shell. And then, unbidden, a memory seeped into her mind—a memory she had buried so deep she thought it was forgotten.
The Past: Hatred in the Silence
I remember the kitchen, the light streaming through the window, the table set for three, but there were only two of us. I remember my mother's voice—a voice once full of love, but now only a whisper of pain. "You are just like your father," she whispered, her eyes pools of hatred. "You are exactly like him. And for that... I hate you."
Her words were a blade cutting through my heart. My father was gone, and I was left with a shadow—the ghost of a mother who had lost her soul. She wouldn't speak to me. She wouldn't look at me. I was a nothing. I was an anomaly. I was a creature carrying the blood of the man who had abandoned her.
I remember my bed, the cold of the night seeping through thin sheets. My stomach was a hollow hole. Hunger was a physical entity consuming me. But the greatest hunger was the one I felt in my heart: the hunger for a love I would never have. I wasn't good enough. I wasn't smart enough. I wasn't beautiful enough. I was just a child—a child without a name. A child without a father, without a mother. I was only a shadow. And a shadow could not be loved.
Bea woke to the present, her body an empty husk. Her tears had soaked her pillow. Her pain had transformed into a vast compassion. She understood now that Juglian's pain wasn't just the pain of a man who had lost his fame, but the pain of a man who had been abandoned, hated, and had lived a life of total solitude. She realized her anger wasn't the hatred of a friend, but the reaction of someone seeing her own suffering mirrored in him.
She rose from the bed, her figure fragile and thin. She opened the door, her heart a drum beating out the melody of an infinite hope. She saw Juglian, still on his knees, his head bowed. She approached him and knelt down. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice a silken thread, a whispered prayer. "I'm sorry for the pain I caused you. I'm sorry for hating you. Please... please, forgive me."
Juglian raised his head, his eyes pools of agony. "There is nothing to forgive, Bea," he murmured, his voice a wisp of smoke lost in the distant hum of the city. "I was the one who was wrong."
She looked at him, and for the first time, her eyes weren't filled with rage, but with infinite compassion. "You were just a child, Juglian. You were just a child who was afraid. Please... please, come back. Be my friend again. Please... don't leave me alone."
Juglian said nothing. He simply held her tight. His body, once an armor, was now only an empty shell. His sadness filled the room like a physical presence. And in that moment, his soul—his tormented soul—finally felt free.