I finally managed to earn a small, humble income.
I started knitting clothes for the students at the school, and they paid me a little for my manual labor.
The principal quietly turned a blind eye, allowing me to supplement my living expenses this way.
It was neither steady nor profitable.
Most of the students knew how to do needlework themselves.
They only came to me when they were in a rush, falling behind on a deadline, or needed to knit gloves and socks for their families.
Even so, having this tiny trickle of money breathed a little life into my otherwise stagnant routine.
My mind often drifted into foolish daydreams.
I caught myself thinking that if my mother hadn’t taken that desperate, irreversible exit—if she had just stayed and waited for me—maybe I would be capable of supporting her by now.
Of course, every time I counted the few coins in my palm, reality pulled me back. It was nothing more than an impossible fantasy.
Still, simply letting myself indulge in that thought brought a fleeting sense of comfort.
I missed my mother more with each passing day.
She visited me constantly in my dreams, keeping me company through countless lonely nights.
A fragile hope quietly took root inside me.
I believed that if I could just see her one more time, I would definitely bring her away with me. We would somehow find a way to survive together.
It was a quiet, uncertain dream, yet it became my deepest secret.
Then came the day I went on an outing outside the city with my classmates.
By the time we turned back, it was already past four in the afternoon.
To get back to school faster, our group took a shortcut through a secluded, narrow alley.
And there, in that quiet alley, I saw her.
There was a steamed bun shop along the lane with a large basket set outside the door.
Propped up on the basket was a huge wooden bun painted white—a makeshift sign to draw in customers.
My mother sat on the ground right next to the shop front, leaning forward and pulling back in a steady rhythm as she worked the heavy bellows.
Even from a distance, I recognized that giant wooden sign. And I recognized the curve of her back instantly.
I wanted so badly to rush forward and throw my arms around her.
But I froze.
I was terrified that my classmates would mock me, that they would look down on me for having a mother who looked so ragged and broken.
The group kept moving, slowly closing the distance between us and her.
I kept my head down, tears brimming in my eyes until everything turned into a blur.
Through the haze of my tears, I stole one quick glance at her.
She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, completely absorbed in pulling the bellows, never noticing me at all.
Our entire group brushed right past her side.
She seemed oblivious to the world around her, buried in her grueling task, looking numb and exhausted.
After we walked far down the lane, I couldn’t stop myself from turning around to look back.
She was still sitting in the exact same spot, pulling the bellows over and over without pause.
I couldn’t see her face clearly anymore—only a few stray strands of hair hanging loosely across her forehead.
I silently memorized the name of that alley, carving the memory deep into my heart.