In the dead of night, the riverbank lay pitch-black, the water below surging violently.
From somewhere behind me came frantic shouts from the hospital.
“There’s someone over there!”
I did not hesitate.
I hurled myself into the icy river.
In that instant, Nathan Golding, the second son of the Goldings, truly died.
After that, I drifted through the world like a ghost.
I slept under bridges, scavenged leftovers, and endured countless cold, contemptuous stares.
Later, I found work on construction sites, hauling cement day after day. Steel bars bent my back inch by inch, until I finally scraped together enough money to buy a battered old car.
By day, I worked as a designated driver.
By night, I kneaded dough and chopped fillings. Flour and grime stayed permanently lodged beneath my fingernails, no matter how hard I scrubbed.
Still, life slowly began to regain a trace of warmth.
That was when Luis appeared.
One day, the young man stood awkwardly at the shop door, scratching the back of his head. His smile was shy but hopeful.
“Boss, I’m strong. I can work hard,” he said earnestly. “People back home say I’m useless. I just want to make something of myself in the city. Could you give me a job?”