"Once, someone asked, 'Are we, as humans, truly equal in this society?' The answer was as fractured as the world itself—some would say yes, clinging to the ideals of fairness and justice; others would say no, pointing to the glaring hierarchies that divide us. But one truth remains certain: the moment we are born is the moment our inequality begins."
"Some are born into privilege, others into struggle. Some are gifted with talent, while others are left to fight for scraps of opportunity. Equality is a noble dream, but society thrives on the illusion of balance while rewarding power, skill, and ambition."
In the end, equality is nothing but a... paradox—a fleeting ideal that exists only in the quiet corners of our minds, away from the harsh realities of the world.
The old man, his face weathered by time, walked beside her through the biting cold, his steps slow but steady. The wind howled around them, but he didn't seem to mind. His presence was a silent anchor in the turbulent sea of her thoughts. "Don't worry, you'll be fine," he said softly, his voice steady despite the chill. "That place is good for you. You'll find your way, just like I did."
She looked up at him, wondering if his words were meant to comfort or if they carried a deeper meaning—something more personal. She had always admired his resilience, his ability to face hardships without letting them break him. He had seen the worst of life, yet he still stood tall, still believed in the possibility of change.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice betraying a trace of doubt.
The old man's eyes softened, his gaze distant for a moment as though he were remembering something long past. "We don't always get what we deserve in this world," he said, his voice heavy with years of experience. "But we keep moving forward, because there's nothing else we can do. Just make sure you don't lose yourself along the way."
She nodded, the weight of his words settling in her chest. In a world so broken, maybe all they could do was keep walking.
It was a crisp winter morning, and the two of them walked slowly toward the bus stand. The cold air nipped at their faces, the ground crunching under their feet with every step. The girl glanced at her grandfather, his weathered face calm as always.
"What was it like?" she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. "To be in that place? How did it feel, Grandpa?"
The old man stopped for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His expression was unreadable, a mix of nostalgia and something deeper—perhaps regret, or wisdom earned through pain.
"It wasn't easy," he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. "That place was… complicated. It taught me a lot, but it also took a lot from me. Sometimes, it felt like a prison, and other times, it felt like the only place I truly belonged."
The girl furrowed her brows, trying to imagine what he meant. "Did you ever feel like giving up?"
He looked at her, his eyes sharp yet kind. "Plenty of times. But giving up isn't an option in a place like that. You learn to adapt, to survive, to play the game they want you to play, because if you don't, the place will break you."
The girl nodded slowly, her breath fogging in the chilly air. She wasn't sure if his words comforted or frightened her, but she knew one thing: whatever awaited her in that place, it wouldn't be easy.
After ten minutes of walking—a stretch of time that felt like an eternity, as though the world itself had paused to let them linger—the bus stop came into view. The bus stood waiting, its engine rumbling softly in the cold morning air, a sign that her departure was inevitable.
A man suddenly stormed off the bus, anger radiating from him as he shouted and stormed in the opposite direction, his steps heavy and sharp.
The old man, standing nearby, noticed the scene and gestured toward the bus. "I think that's your bus," he said, his voice steady but with a faint undercurrent of sadness. "Now go. Aria Reyes."
The girl hesitated for a moment, her feet rooted to the frosty ground. She turned to him, searching his face for something—reassurance, perhaps, or the strength to take the next step.
"You'll be fine," he added, his weathered hand resting gently on her shoulder. "Just remember what I said. Keep moving forward, no matter what. And don't lose yourself."
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. With a deep breath, she turned toward the bus, her heart heavy yet filled with a quiet resolve.
The gate of the bus stood wide open, almost like an invitation—or perhaps a challenge. It seemed to say, It's time to go.
Aria hesitated for a moment, her heart thudding in her chest. She took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs, and then stepped forward. Her right foot crossed the threshold first, tentative yet resolute, as she entered the bus.
The warmth inside hit her instantly, a stark contrast to the biting chill outside. She turned back, her eyes meeting her grandfather's one last time through the open door. His expression was steady, yet his gaze seemed to carry the weight of unspoken words—pride, worry, and hope all at once. Her grandfather was still standing there, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the winter morning. He raised a hand in a simple wave, and she returned it, her chest tightening.
The gate behind her was closed.
The bus was warm and crowded, but it felt cold for some reason she knew why. The bus driver said softly, "Why don't you have a seat, girl?"