The gate creaked open, a sound that resonated deep in my chest after nine years of confinement. Stepping outside felt strange, like walking on unfamiliar ground. The air was different-crisper, carrying the distant scent of exhaust fumes and something floral I couldn't quite place. It was the smell of freedom, or at least, the smell of the world I had been locked away from. Uncle Kim was waiting just beyond the perimeter fence, a lone figure amidst the institutional grey. He looked older, perhaps, than the last time I'd seen him, which was a fleeting, heartbreaking moment years ago. His shoulders were slightly stooped, and his face was etched with more lines, but his eyes, when they met mine, held the same unwavering kindness I remembered. He wore a simple, slightly worn jacket, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He wasn't dressed in a crisp suit like my father would have been; he looked... real. He offered a gentle, hesitant smile. "Y/N," he said, his voice quiet, a little husky. He didn't rush me, didn't press. He just stood there, a silent, steady presence. My throat tightened. Nine years. Nine years of silence, of therapy, of trying to understand how a single moment of explosive rage had derailed my entire existence. I had served my time, paid. my debt to the system, or at least, the portion they deemed appropriate. But the weight of what I had done, the life I had taken, felt heavier than ever out here in the open world. "Uncle Kim," I managed, the name feeling both foreign and achingly familiar. A weak smile touched my lips. He stepped forward then, opening his arms. It wasn't a big, overwhelming gesture, but a quiet invitation. I walked into his embrace. He held me gently, a warmth radiating from him that I hadn't felt in so long. It was the warmth of simple, uncomplicated care. He didn't ask about the years inside, didn't mention the crime. He just held me for a moment, a silent acknowledgement of the gap in our lives. "Let's go home," he said, finally pulling back, his hands resting on my shoulders. "I've got some warm rice waiting." Home. The word felt foreign. My parents' apartment had never been a home, just a gilded cage. The detention center had been a prison. Could this quiet man offer me a home? His apartment was small, lived-in. Books were stacked on every available surface, plants sat on windowsills, and the air smelled faintly of stew and old paper. It was cluttered, unlike the sterile perfection my mother demanded, but it felt... comfortable. Safe. He showed me to a small spare room. It had a narrow bed covered with a simple, patterned quilt, a small chest of drawers, and a desk by the window. "It's not much," he said, his voice slightly apologetic. "But it's yours. For as long as you need it." On the bed, folded neatly at the foot, was a small, faded blue blanket with cartoon characters I didn't recognize. It looked old, well-loved. I picked it up; the fabric was soft, worn thin in places. A quiet ache settled in my chest. He didn't need to say anything. I remembered him mentioning his daughter, Jihae, years ago. How she had died. He'd had a photo in his wallet then, of a bright-eyed girl with a gap-toothed smile. This must have been hers. He kept it for me. Not just a blanket, but a symbol of a life lost, and perhaps, a quiet hope for a life found.Life with Uncle Kim was a study in gentle routine. Mornings began not with a screaming alarm or a mess hall bell, but with the quiet sound of him moving in the kitchen. He'd make simple meals rice, soup, banchan. We'd eat together, often in comfortable silence. He'd read the newspaper, occasionally commenting on a news story about pension reform or local politics, his voice laced with a quiet frustration I didn't fully understand yet. I'd watch him, this man who had no obligation to me, who had opened his home and his life. Why was he doing this? Slowly, cautiously, I started to help him around the apartment. Doing laundry, I'd hang his worn shirts and trousers on the drying rack, noticing the fraying cuffs, the patched elbows. One afternoon, helping him sort through a pile of papers on his desk, I saw a framed photo tucked behind a stack of bills. It was him, younger, smiling broadly, his arm around a little girl with bright eyes and a mischievous grin. Jihae. My fingers traced the edge of the frame. He didn't say anything, just gave me a small, sad smile. His pension. I started to pick up on the snippets of his phone conversations. Arguments with bureaucratic offices, frustrated sighs, talk of delays and appeals. He was struggling financially, I realized, living on very little, fighting for money he was owed. And yet, he was supporting me. It wasn't just the blanket or the photo. It was the quiet way he made sure I ate, the fact that he never complained about the extra mouth to feed, the way he'd leave a cup of tea on my desk if he saw me sitting there, staring into space. He saw something in me, something beyond the crime, beyond the label of 'offender'. Maybe it was because he had known me before, however briefly. Maybe it was the echo of his own lost daughter, a void in his life that my presence, however imperfect, somehow eased. He never pressured me to talk about the past, but he was always there, a silent anchor. But the past wasn't just a memory; it was a brand. The moment I felt ready, I started looking for work. Filling out applications felt like a step towards normalcy, towards proving that I wasn't defined solely by that awful day. I polished my limited resume, practiced answering questions in the mirror. Hope, a fragile, unfamiliar feeling, began to blossom. The interviews were polite, professional. They'd ask about my skills, my interests, why I was looking for a job now. I learned to smile, to nod, to project a calm, capable demeanor. I didn't lie about the nine-year gap on my resume; I simply said I'd been away, handling a personal matter. Some interviewers seemed satisfied with that, others looked curious, but they didn't push. The offers came. A position at a small bookstore, a data entry job at a quiet office. My heart soared. I could do this. I could build a new life. I called Uncle Kim, my voice trembling with excitement. He was so happy for me, his quiet pleasure mirroring my own. Then came the calls. Always after the background check. The tone would shift. The voice on the other end would become hesitant, guarded. "Ah, yes, Ms. Lee. We've received your paperwork. Regarding... the discrepancy... in your record..." The polite excuses followed. "We've decided to move forward with another candidate." "The position has been filled." "We'll keep your application on file." It was the record. The conviction. The murder. Nine years of 'rehabilitation', of therapy and education, and still, the world saw only the seventeen-year-old girl who had snapped in a classroom. The mark was indelible. It didn't matter that I had changed, that I felt genuine remorse, that I craved a chance at a normal life. The system, even outside the detention center, had its own way of keeping you confined. Soo-jin's voice echoed in my mind during one particularly bleak evening after another rejection call. "You think crying about stabbing that asshole will fix you? You're like me now-markee She'd said it during a group therapy session, her voice low and cynical. Soo-jin was sharp, street-smart, serving time for a string of petty thefts. She saw the world in stark, brutal terms - us versus them, the marked and the unmarked. She hadn't bought into the rehabilitation narrative. She saw the system as something to be outsmarted, not reformed by. "You felt powerful, didn't you? she'd pushed, her dark eyes fixed on me, challenging me during a session where I was talking about my guilt. The therapist, Ms. Han, had tried to intervene, but Soo-jin was relentless. "When you had that knife in your hand. When he fell. You weren't scared then, were you? You were finally in control.** The accusation had hit a nerve. I had flinched, denied it vehemently. "No! It was... it was horror! Panic! But her words had planted a seed of doubt. Was there a sliver of truth in what she said? Had the rage, the sudden, absolute control over someone else's life, felt like a release from the suffocating powerlessness I'd always felt? The thought was repellent, terrifying. I had lashed out, screaming at her, exposing a raw, ugly anger that shocked even myself. "You don't know anything about me!" It was a messy, shameful outburst, proving Soo-jin's point in a twisted way - that the violence, the buried fury, was still there, a dark impulse lurking beneath the surface of my remorse. Soo-jin had just smirked, a knowing look in her eyes. "See? Marked."* Her words felt like a prophecy now. The world outside the gates wasn't ready for me. The system had 'rehabilitated' me, given me therapy and education, only to release me into a society that had no place for me. I was a product of the system's failure, and now I was being punished for it all over again. The hope I had felt was crumbling, replaced by a familiar bitterness, a creeping sense of desperation. Uncle Kim's quiet support was a lifeline, but I couldn't burden him forever. He had his own struggles, his fight with the pension office dragging on, the constant worry etched deeper into his face every time the phone rang. Lying in bed that night, under Jihae's old blanket, I stared at the ceiling, the silence of the apartment a stark contrast to the cacophony of the detention center. I had traded one cage for another. The bars were invisible now, made of prejudice and a criminal record, but they were just as effective. Where did I go from here? The path to a 'normal' life was blocked. Was Soo-jin right? Was I marked? Was there only one kind of life left for someone like me?
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