The freedom was intoxicating. It was a euphoric, dizzying rush. No one saw me. No one judged me. I could stumble, I could dance, I could do the silliest things in the middle of a crowded square and remain utterly alone. I wore what I wanted, my skin could break out without a second thought, and I sang at the top of my lungs with my terrible voice, the sound swallowed by the wind. It was peace. It was liberation.
I walked into the most expensive stores and dressed myself in silks and cashmeres I could never have afforded. The alarms would blare, security guards would scramble, and I would be long gone. I became a minor legend in certain circles—a poltergeist with a taste for haute couture. They'd check the security cameras and see a Chanel dress float off its hanger and out the door. People fainted. They whispered of bad spirits.
I ate at Michelin-star restaurants, the food disappearing from plates meant for other, paying customers. Technically, it was stealing. But I didn't care. I flew from country to country, a stowaway in first class. I saw the sunset over the Colosseum in Rome, walked the ancient stones of the Acropolis in Greece, felt the rain on my face in Paris, and lost myself in the neon-drenched streets of Seoul.
I even tried to do good. I would take food from grocery store shelves and leave it on the doorsteps of the poor, who woke to find what they believed were miracles.
But after countless days, the novelty began to fade, replaced by a dull, aching boredom. My life, once again, had become a routine. No matter what I did, the thrill was gone. Human desire, I realized, is a bottomless pit, especially when it's untethered from rules and consequences. My conscience, long dormant, began to stir. I was a thief, no matter if my intentions were occasionally good. I hated the person I was becoming: someone who didn't care at all.
I decided to go back. Back to Grandma's.
It was late at night, as I was passing through a wealthy district on the outskirts of a town, that I heard it: the sound of a man sobbing, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony.
"It's all my fault," he cried, his voice choked. "I can't believe I killed someone."
The sound pulled me like a magnet. It came from a place Grandma had once pointed out, a gated community she called the "rich town." The mansions were breathtaking, architectural marvels of glass and stone, surrounded by immaculate gardens and high security. I followed the voice to a balcony, where a figure was silhouetted against the ambient light.
He was clinging to the railing, his body shaking with grief. The house was enormous, the garden twice the size of our entire apartment back home.
I had to know who he was. I had to understand. I scaled the wall and climbed to his balcony, my movements silent and sure. He was still crying, lost in his own private hell. I approached him slowly, my hand outstretched, wanting to offer a comfort I knew he couldn't feel. As the tips of my fingers neared his head, a strange shiver went through me. I touched his hair—it was soft as silk—knowing he wouldn't react.
But he did.
He lifted his head, and I snatched my hand back, my heart seizing in my chest. For a terrifying second, I thought he'd seen me. But his gaze was distant, unfocused. I saw his face clearly then, and it was majestic. His eyes were a startling hazel, begging for release from a cage of pain. His features were perfectly symmetrical, his jawline sharp and defined. He was tall, with a strong, athletic build, and his lips were soft, drawn into a grimace of sorrow.
I felt a bizarre, unfamiliar flutter in my chest, a feeling I couldn't name. My heart was a wild thing, trying to beat its way out of my body.
He turned and went back inside his room, grabbing his phone. I followed him like a shadow.
"John?" he said into the phone, his voice rough. "Yeah, it's me. Am I still on for tonight?" A pause. "Yes, but I'll cover it. You rest, Ben-Oni," a voice crackled back from the speaker.
Ben-Oni. The name was beautiful. A wave of happiness, an emotion that had felt alien for so long, washed over me.
"No, no need," Ben-Oni replied. "It happened. I'll be there."
He ended the call. What had happened? How could this beautiful, grieving man have killed someone?
He left the room, and I trailed behind him, a duckling following its mother. As we reached the grand staircase, an older woman's voice called out.
"Are you going to the hospital?"
We both turned.
"Yes, I am," he said, his voice flat. "I came to get the rest of my things, but I don't have time. I'll come back tomorrow."
"Ben-Oni," the woman said, her voice strained. "Have you ever wondered what a mother will do alone in this huge house?"
He stopped, his back rigid. "Then let me ask you," he replied, his tone dripping with ice, "have you ever wondered what a mother's boyfriend thinks when her grown-up son interferes?"
"Ben-Oni, stop saying those words," she pleaded.
He didn't respond. Ignoring her, he strode towards the garage. The tension between them was a palpable, freezing cold. They were two people drowning, standing right next to each other.
He opened the door to a sleek, dark car. As he slid into the driver's seat, I slipped into the passenger side, pulling the door shut just before he did. He wouldn't feel the air shift, wouldn't notice the slight click. He was alone with his ghosts.
And I was alone with him.
After a twenty-minute ride in complete silence, we arrived at a vast, sprawling hospital, its lights cutting through the darkness like a beacon.