I spent all the prize money to buy a seaside gravesite for my wife and daughter.
It's quiet here, nestled against the cliffs and facing the ocean.
I think they would have liked it.
This way, they can see the sea every day.
That evening, the glow of the sunset dyed the horizon red, and waves gently lapped against the rocks along the shore. The wind was chilly. I stood before the gravestone in silence for a long time, then slowly reached out and touched the cold surface of the stone.
The stone offered no response, and the world seemed frozen.
My mind was plunged into darkness.
I spoke many words to the gravestone. I talked about the past, about the game in the prison, about how I had won. I spoke of how I had led everyone to their deaths with my own hands, how I once thought I was clever enough to survive within the rules, yet forgot that both the beginning and end of it all were stained with blood.
I said, "I won, but I have nothing left."
"Although I now have what is called 'freedom,' it is not freedom."
I paused, lowered my head, and gazed at the distant rolling waves.
"I have merely moved from a cage called prison to another, larger cage—a birdcage named reality and society."
"It appears to have no lock, yet it is harder to escape than anywhere else."
The wind swept over my back, carrying the scent of sea salt and wiping away the tears at the corners of my eyes.
I lost you, and I lost myself.
I reached for the pistol always holstered at my waist. My fingertips brushed against the cold metal—the same gun I had used years ago to kill that bastard.
I raised the gun, my thumb resting on the trigger. Closing my eyes, countless images flashed through my mind: life-and-death stares in the game hall, the eyes of the deceased, the smiling faces of my wife and daughter, and my own painful tears.
"Miao Miao... Daddy is coming to be with you." In that moment, I wanted to erase everything.
Woof! Woof!
But just as my finger was about to press down, a low, earnest bark suddenly rang out.
I opened my eyes wide and saw a small, thin dog dart out from beside the gravestone. It bumped against my leg, gently tugging at my pants with its teeth. In its eyes was a stubborn kind of tenderness.
I was stunned.
It refused to back away, wagging its tail slightly and nuzzling the back of my hand with its nose. In that moment, time seemed to freeze—an instinct told me:
You cannot give up on yourself. Even if you've lost everything, you must go on living.
My hand hesitated.
I looked down at it, a warmth rising from deep within me. Perhaps this dog didn't understand the meaning of "freedom," but in the most primal way, it made me realize: some creatures' desire to live itself is more real, more sacred, than anything else.
I finally lowered the gun and murmured softly, "How did you find me?" It wagged its tail and rubbed against my leg, as if saying, Don't just stand here foolishly, let's go.
Years later, my life gradually found stability.
I discovered a faint glimmer of hope in an ordinary job and learned to use my remaining days to make amends with myself. Yet every year, I return to that gravesite, for the two people I loved most are buried there.
Today was no different. On my way to the cemetery, I first stopped by a small flower shop on the street corner. A wind chime hung at the entrance, jingling softly in the breeze. The shop was filled with the faint scent of soil and flowers. As I walked toward a row of white lilies, my eyes suddenly fell on a bunch of dandelions on the counter.
The shopkeeper was arranging bouquets. Seeing me pause, she said softly, "These were picked fresh this morning. They haven't fully withered yet."
I reached out and picked up the dandelions, cradling them gently in my palm. The white puffball seemed incredibly soft under the light, so fragile that a single breath might scatter them. After a moment of silence, I nodded. "I'll take these."
As I paid, a gust of wind blew through the door, lifting several dandelion seeds into the air. They drifted with the wind like tiny spirits flying freely toward the boundless sky.
I pushed open the door of the flower shop. The sunlight slanted down warmly.
The path back to the cemetery passed by a small playground. The metal equipment was somewhat worn, but laughter still echoed from it. I couldn't help but stop.
A young couple was pushing a little girl on a swing. The girl wore a floral dress, her legs swinging energetically in the air, her hair flying in the wind.
She threw her head back, laughing loudly, and shouted, "The ocean is so beautiful—!"
I froze in my tracks.
The sea wind, carrying its salty taste, brushed against my face. The ocean stretched endlessly, glittering under the light. The little girl's laughter intertwined with the breathing of the sea—pure and free.
I watched them quietly, suddenly feeling a pang of sorrow in my heart, yet also wrapped in a gentle warmth.
The dandelions in my hand trembled slightly. I looked down and couldn't help but smile. It wasn't a bitter smile, but one of long-awaited release.
A moment later, I turned and continued toward the cemetery. The sound of the waves faded behind me but remained etched in my heart. I pushed open the small iron gate, piled with fallen leaves, and stepped into the familiar graveyard.
The names of my wife and daughter were still clearly visible on the tombstone. The wind rustled through the leaves.
I took out a drawing from my coat: in it, a family of three and a dog were running across a green grassy field.
I also took out a bouquet of flowers from my backpack—a bundle of pink and white chrysanthemums, an offering I brought every year. Finally, from my bag, I pulled out the pistol I had once intended to end my life with and slowly placed it beside the base of the tombstone—
The gun was now rusted, as if silently mocking the despair I felt back then.
Gently, I arranged the drawing, the flowers, and the pistol. Suppressing the ache in my heart, I bowed deeply to the tombstone and turned to leave.
After taking just a few steps, two seagulls took flight from the nearby shore, circling once in the air. Instead of flying away immediately, they glided with the sea breeze above the tombstone, passing quietly overhead as if keeping watch, or perhaps saying goodbye. One of them—pecked lightly at the grip of the gun I had left behind.
My heart trembled. I turned back in stunned silence. They spread their wings under the sunlight, their feathers so white they seemed almost transparent, as if telling me: True freedom is the moment you take flight, not clinging to the tools of death.
One seagull soared high, while the other swept low over the tombstone, gracefully releasing a single snow-white feather.
The feather drifted down slowly and landed softly on the rusted muzzle of the gun.
The sea breeze blew in, carrying its salty dampness, almost as if infused with laughter.
I looked toward the distance. The two seagulls flew side by side into the depths of the ocean, their figures gradually merging into where the sky met the sea.
I suddenly smiled.
For no reason, I just smiled