The prison moved on. Life continued with the same relentless rhythm, but Lucky's absence left a quiet, almost imperceptible void. Some noticed her missing—one whispered name here, a glance there—but no one truly understood her.
In the corners of the prison, stories formed. Tales of the "princess who tried and failed" circulated among prisoners. Some mocked, some pitied, but none felt the depth of her pain, the years of betrayal, the hours of silent suffering that had led her to that cold, lonely decision.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent rush. Cars honked, people shouted, and the sun rose and fell without noticing the girl who had briefly touched its world.
Lucky's memories, though gone from the world of the living, lingered in the smallest things: the cracked ceiling of her apartment, the knife left behind, the faint echo of her whispered words, "I hope I won't be human again."
Her life, short and full of sorrow, became a ghost story of innocence lost, hope betrayed, and trust misplaced. And yet, even in the silence, there was something that survived: the proof that she had lived, had felt, had tried.
She had arrived with naivety, believing in kindness and warmth. She had faced cruelty, betrayal, and the darkest corners of humanity. And though the world had taken her, she had never surrendered her awareness—her mind, even in despair, had clung to the truth of what she had endured.
The echoes of Lucky's life whispered through the walls of the prison and the streets of the city, fading slowly but never completely disappearing.