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Everyone has a favorite movie that they've heard about but never got to see.
For me, it was The Shawshank Redemption.
I only know that the main character is falsely accused and imprisoned, and after a lot of hardship, he escapes. I don't know the plot, I don't know the conflict between the characters, and I don't really care.
But I do remember the last moment of the movie clearly.
The sight of the protagonist, who had successfully escaped and finally won his freedom, shouting hooray to the heavens as he took in the torrential rain, was quite impressive.
I wondered if I would do the same thing if I had a similar experience in the future, and I even thought about it.
But when I actually experienced it, I was dumbfounded.
When I first saw the saintess rushing at me with her ominous eyes flashing, I thought I'd be stuck here for at least a day, if not longer.
The sudden change in demeanor of the saintess, her willingness to let me out of the room so abruptly, without any context, was more embarrassing than the joy of escape.
Puberty.
The saintess had matured in recent years, so it was entirely possible, but I couldn't help but swallow the steaming thorn in my throat.
It was no longer surprising that the saintess could open a locked door from the outside without touching it.
It was only that I, who had grown accustomed to her transcendent behavior, felt a little unfamiliar.
''Saintess. Am I really leaving?''
I asked, even though I'd already had the experience of seeing blood after being told to leave many times before.
Saintess's attitude of wanting to send me out of the real world was unprecedentedly strong.
Her slender hands, which seemed to be barely big enough to push something away, were steadfastly clasping my back, and although she didn't show it, I felt a little hurt.
''Ugh~!''
''Oh, okay, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go!''
This is how parents feel when faced with their child's first rebellion.
I swallowed my hesitant thoughts and let myself be carried along by the faint current that washed over my back.
◈◈◈◈
The taste of the world that I had tasted for the first time in hours did not bring me much inspiration.
I hadn't been locked up long enough to realize anything new in the first place, and the view I saw upon exiting my room was the same unremarkable one I'd seen upon entering, with only a slight change in brightness.
Just, it's night already. The night air is so cold, that's all I could think about.
As I chewed on my little escape, I started walking toward my room at a steady pace.
Around the corner in the hallway, I met an unexpected figure.
Or, in this case, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I found her.
''Sister?''
At first, I thought I'd seen the wrong one.
It was a wild night. Like the time a passerby mistook a black plastic bag lying on the sidewalk for a cat.
Crouching in the corner of the hallway, it took me a while to realize that the black object blending into the wall was my acquaintance.
The one who had imprisoned me in my own reality, the one who had given me an unspeakable sense of betrayal at a time when I was at the most vulnerable age.
If this were a movie, she'd be a mid-level boss, if not the boss.
She didn't have a sudden burst of emotion or a burst of anger like the protagonists of countless Kwon Seon Jing-ak movies I'd seen in my previous life.
Nor would he.
The nun's pitiful form, leaning against the wall and sleeping helplessly on the floor, seemed too vulnerable to be the recipient of such intense emotion.
For example, a lantern in the wind. A cracked glass. The phrase "shattering if you touch it" seemed to have been born to describe her.
I wonder if she's been drinking.
It is an annual event in any monastery of any size that young priests and nuns sneak wine from the cellar and drink themselves into a stupor.
Suspicions were quickly dispelled, as it seemed unlikely that the normally stoic Sister would commit such a deviation, and she didn't even smell of alcohol on her person.
''There, Sister----. If you're going to sleep in a place like this, you'd better shut up----.''
''Mmm----.''
I tried to rouse her consciousness with a light shake of my shoulder, but she didn't seem to be having any of it.
I didn't think it would even recognize me, let alone ask.
He realized that it was a dangerous place, but as a cleric, he couldn't help but worry about her level of crisis awareness.
''No, this hand, what happened to it again----. I want to----.''
She even injured herself somewhere else.
I remember reading somewhere that a small mistake made by a normally meticulous person can be an attractive point.
Speaking from the perspective of someone who routinely has their mistakes pointed out to them, I can only describe it as a feeling of inexplicable frustration, not attraction.
I carefully placed Sister's white hand on mine, inspecting its condition.
Judging from the amount and depth of blood on the wound, it must have been cut by a sharp object, such as a protruding nail or a piece of wood.
"You should never use it on yourself, or anyone else, unless it's a grave wound, like a single piercing.
At that moment, a stinging phrase she had once heard flashed through her mind.
It was hard to believe that this was the same cold person who had seemed to sprout thorns with every word.
I stare at her now, at the flawed, one might even call it hollow, nun.
I could feel the rebellion rising like a pungent smoke from the corners of my mind.
If I don't get caught, it's enough.
I took the Rosario from my breast pocket, held it in my hand, and began to recite a silent prayer to keep her from waking.
It wasn't an action borne out of lofty sentiments like compassion and mercy, but more of a repulsion that made him want to do more.
''Giver. I am your finger. A mere lamb. Under your power, I will give rest to all things on earth, and all the glory is yours.''
By the time I had transferred the gathered mass of divine light beyond my clasped hands, Sister's wounds had healed without incident.
It was fortunate that I found the wound before it was too late.
Prayer can only heal wounds that have not yet healed. There's nothing I can do about the disfigurement that comes from an open wound.
The idea of a scar as a badge of honor is only for adventurers and warriors.
A woman's indelible scar is a matter of such gravity that even a passing dog knows it.
Click.
That was it. The mask resting on the nun's eye sockets tilted off-center.
Then, like water seeping into a leaky ferry, legitimate doubts about why she had suddenly begun to wear a mask began to invade her thinking.
After a brief but not unreasonable amount of deliberation, I finally came to the logical conclusion that it was probably due to lice or acne.
At this moment, with the answer sheet in front of me, it was impossible for me, as a curious animal, not to peek at it.
I wonder how long it's been.
Yeah. It's a rather gentlemanly thing to do to remove glasses from a sleeping person's face. Or, let's say, it's a fair price to pay for healing your hand.
Using such lame excuses as a cause, I finally removed the mask from the nun's face.
''Hmm.''
She's beautiful.
Her face, devoid of even a single blemish, was as noble as ever.
Unlike the moonlight, which is unable to move in and out of coldness without the sun's help, the white jade-like skin, which was radiating a sublime glow of its own, combined with the mysteriousness of the closed eyes, gave me the vague illusion that I was looking at a work of art.
Perhaps the most important virtue for a boss is not competence, but good looks that can tolerate some incompetence.
It was a bittersweet moment that reaffirmed the ugly nature of human beings, who are so angry at pretty people.
Why the hell was she wearing a mask, was it just a fashion statement?
''What the hell is this?''
''Mmph----.''
I pinched and stretched the nun's fluffy cheeks, trying to soothe the feeling of emptiness that was building up in my mind.
''Huh?''
My consciousness jerked briefly at the unexpected change.
One of the myriad symbols the saintess had carved into my palm was melting away like paint on water.
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