Mom… if you're out there, if you can hear … do you know they sold ?
I don’t know your face. I don’t rember your voice. They told I was too young to rember you. But is that true? Shouldn’t I feel at least a trace of your presence, like a warmth that never fades?
Father never spoke of you. Even your na sounded like sothing he wanted to erase. Just like .
I was always the unwanted one. The one who should never have existed.
But if you were alive… would it have been different?
***
Once, I thought that if I stayed quiet, if I obeyed, if I was good—soone would notice . Maybe even accept .
Father never looked at . I was background noise. A stain on his perfect family portrait. He carried my sister in his arms, combed her hair, called her his treasure. But when I tried to approach him, he turned away.
Once, I brought him a flower. I wanted him to say it was beautiful. That I had chosen well. But he didn’t even glance at . He walked past as if I were nothing, then handed the flower to soone who truly mattered, with a smile I had longed for—just once—to see directed at .
That day, I stopped trying.
Then ca other days. Days when I watched my sister receive the finest silk dresses while I was given hand--downs from the servants. Days when she was free to play while I was punished for the slightest mistakes. I rember once, when I accidentally knocked over a teacup—it wasn’t even hot, but my stepmother looked at as if I had committed an unforgivable cri.
“Only filth makes a ss,” she said.
Before I could react, I felt pain—her hand striking my cheek with enough force to make stumble.
“Don’t you dare cry. Only the weak cry.”
Her voice was cold, filled with contempt.
I said nothing. I knew words wouldn’t change anything. I knew that if I looked into her eyes, I would see only hatred.
But the worst part was that she wasn’t the only one who looked at that way.
I rember the day my sister shattered an expensive vase in the sitting room. I was a few steps away when the crash echoed through the hall. Before I could say anything, her voice rose in a wail:
“It was her! It was Shion! She pushed !”
My stepmother entered, and her gaze imdiately locked onto . Her face twisted in anger.
“You again…” she whispered coldly, then strode over and grabbed my arm, her grip like iron.
“That’s not true!” I tried to protest, digging my nails into her hand, but her hold only tightened. “I didn’t do anything!”
“A liar and a thief,” she said, her voice as sharp as ice. “As if bringing disgrace wasn’t enough, now you destroy things worth more than you.”
I turned pleading eyes to my father, who had just entered the room. Maybe, for once, he would defend . Maybe this ti he would look at differently.
But he didn’t.
With a single wave of his hand, he dismissed as unworthy of his ti.
When my stepmother struck the first ti, I wasn’t even surprised.
When she did it again, I understood that this was how it would always be.
***
The servants whispered that I should be grateful they kept at all.
I ate scraps from their tables. My clothes were old, worn, often too big or torn. My sister received the finest fabrics, and I… I learned that those without value were invisible.
I thought it would always be this way.
But then… the Ascension Ritual.
Qi pulsed in the air, thick as a storm’s breath. I felt sothing within tremble, crack, awaken.
I was nothing. And then suddenly… everyone was looking at .
Their eyes were wide. Fearful. I could feel my body shaking, sothing wild and primal burning in my veins. The whispers grew louder, people took a step back.
Father… was looking at . But it wasn’t pride.
It was disgust.
I had seen other children after their Ascension Rituals, lifted up, celebrated. I had heard stories of those who awakened their power and beca their family’s pride. But I… I was an exception. My strength wasn’t a blessing—it was a curse.
Two days later, I was locked in a cage.
***
Slaves in the cell do not cry. They do not scream. It changes nothing. I no longer care.
Yesterday, they made wash my hair, dress in silk robes. For the first ti in my life, soone wanted to look presentable. Not because I deserved it. Because my body had a price.
“You are to look proper for the buyers,” the guard growls, shoving forward.
A dark corridor. Flickering lamplight. Hot, heavy air thick with the scent of incense and gold. And then… the bright stage where I stand like an exhibit on display.
Today, I will be sold.
As I walk down the corridor toward the auction hall, I hear the whispers of the guards.
“They say it’s her. The one who awakened the Bloodline Roots.”
“Imagine what she could do if she weren’t in chains.”
I do not turn. I do not ask. None of it matters.
***
The bidding starts at an astronomical price.
All eyes are on . Narrowed gazes, calculating minds. Whispers. The rustling of silk robes as soone raises a hand.
“Five hundred thousand!” a voice cuts through the air.
“Six hundred!”
“Seven hundred!”
The numbers rise faster than I expected. One hand after another, as if they are caught in a trance. I do not look at them. I do not want to. But I hear their emotions—excitent, greed, desire.
“One million!”
“One and a half million!”
The room hums with tension. The auctioneer struggles to keep up with the rapid bids, while I… I simply stand there. Staring into nothing. Feeling nothing.
“Two million.”
“Two million, one hundred thousand!” A voice slices through the tension, sending ripples through the crowd.
The auctioneer shifts his gaze to the bidder, but before he can confirm the offer, that sa cold, unwavering voice speaks again.
“Three million.”
This voice is different. Cold. Steady. Not raised, not angry. Just utterly certain.
Silence. The hall freezes. For a fraction of a second, no one moves.
“Three million, going once…” The auctioneer’s voice wavers slightly.
No one raises a hand.
“Three million, going twice…” The air is thick enough to choke on.
Silence.
“Sold.”
The gavel strikes with a hollow thud, sealing my fate.
And then I see her.
She appears before as if she had been there all along, only now stepping into focus. I am used to eyes that see as worthless filth or a monster. But in these eyes… there is sothing different.
I do not see greed, like the ones who bid on as if I were a rare prize. I do not see pity, that empty, patronizing kind that drips from those who claim to be rciful. And I do not see that sa disgust—the look my father gave every ti he set his eyes on .
There is sothing else. Sothing I cannot na. Sothing that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I do not know why my chest tightens. I do not know why I cannot look away.
Mom… if you were here, if I could see you now… would you tell that everything will be okay?
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