BLOSSOMED | SEOKSOO FF

PART 38

By the time Seokmin reached his fourth year in prison, the days had grown repetitive, yet the weight of his actions never dulled. Therapy remained a constant, a guiding light as he continued to confront the darker parts of himself. Yet the prison environment was unforgiving—bullies among the inmates still lurked, and trust was a scarce commodity.

Despite it all, Seokmin persevered. He found solace in small victories: a completed painting, a letter from Jihoon, giving news of arrival of a tiny boy woth Soonyoung's squinty eyes, or even just a quiet moment of reflection. But this year also brought challenges that pushed him to his emotional and mental limits.

Seokmin sat in his cell one night, staring at the small, worn notebook he used as a journal. He had filled pages with sketches, thoughts, and fragments of memories—some beautiful, others haunting.

One entry caught his eye, written months earlier:

"I still hear their voices. The victims, their families. Some nights, I wonder if I’ll ever deserve peace."

The voices had quieted over time, but they hadn’t disappeared. Therapy helped him navigate the guilt, but there were moments when it overwhelmed him. On those nights, he clung to the belief that taking responsibility was the first step toward atonement.

Bullying in prison was a daily reality. Seokmin had learned to navigate it, keeping his head down and avoiding trouble where he could. But one afternoon, he found himself cornered in the yard by three inmates notorious for preying on the vulnerable.

“Still playing the saint, huh?” one of them sneered, shoving Seokmin against the wall. “Bet you think you’re better than us.”

Seokmin’s heart pounded, but he forced himself to meet their gaze. “No,” he said quietly. “I know I’m not.”

The honesty of his words seemed to disarm them for a moment, but it wasn’t enough to stop the first punch. Seokmin doubled over, the pain sharp and immediate, but he refused to fight back.

A guard intervened before things escalated further, pulling the bullies away and warning them of consequences. As Seokmin was helped to his feet, he realized something important: he had chosen not to retaliate. It was a small act of defiance—not against his attackers, but against the person he used to be.

Later that year, Seokmin received an unexpected letter. The envelope bore Jihoon’s neat handwriting, and inside was a photo of Jihoon, Soonyoung, Dino, and their newborn son named Sunoo.

The message was brief but heartfelt:
"We’re all waiting for you, Seokmin. Dino talks about you every day, and Sunoo already loves your paintings. Keep fighting—we’re proud of you."

Tears blurred Seokmin’s vision as he stared at the photo. The sight of Dino’s cheeky grin and the baby cradled in Jihoon’s arms filled him with a bittersweet ache. He had missed so much, but this reminder of family gave him a renewed sense of purpose.

In a particularly difficult therapy session, Seokmin finally confronted a memory he had been avoiding—the night he killed Seongwoo, Jisoo’s coworker.

“I told myself I was protecting Jisoo,” Seokmin admitted, his voice trembling. “But the truth is... I wanted control. I wanted to feel like I had power over something because I felt powerless my whole life.”

His therapist nodded, letting the silence stretch before speaking. “And how do you feel about that now?”

Seokmin swallowed hard. “I hate that part of me. But hating it won’t change what I did. I need to understand it—so I can make sure it never controls me again.”

Seokmin’s artwork became a centerpiece of his rehabilitation. He began painting not just for himself, but for others. Portraits of fellow inmates, scenes from letters he received, and abstract depictions of his emotions filled the walls of his cell.

One of his pieces—a haunting depiction of guilt and forgiveness—was selected for a prison art exhibition. Visitors from outside the prison marveled at the raw emotion in his work, and a few even wrote letters expressing how his art had moved them.

For Seokmin, it wasn’t about recognition. It was about sharing his journey and hoping that, in some small way, it could inspire others to confront their own darkness.

As the year drew to a close, Seokmin found himself standing at a crossroads. He still had four years left to serve, and the weight of his crimes would never truly leave him. But for the first time, he felt like he was beginning to earn the right to hope.

Sitting in his cell one evening, he picked up his journal and wrote:

"Redemption isn’t a destination—it’s a journey. And I’m finally walking in the right direction."