Felicia glanced at the scene from a distance before quickly looking away. "Let's go," she said.

"Huh? You're leaving without even taking a proper look?"

The driver, who had just lit a cigarette and seemed to be enjoying himself, reluctantly extinguished it and continued driving.

After settling the fare, Felicia returned to her rental apartment. Without thinking, she reached for her phone to contact Carmen, only to realize their conversation had ended last week. Any messages sent now would go unanswered. After Carmen's death, Tom had quickly taken the money Felicia gave him and moved his family to start a better life. The old unit across the street had been handed over to a real estate agent for sale.

As Felicia headed upstairs, she encountered an agent showing the house to prospective buyers. The front door stood wide open, and voices drifted from within. She entered, scanned the area, and went straight to Carmen's room—or rather, a storage space converted into a makeshift bedroom, separated only by a curtain. Aside from a pile of clutter, there was a single bed and an old desk; it was sparsely furnished. This was Felicia's first visit to Carmen's home.

Under the old desk, she found several books. One, at the bottom, caught her eye. It had a different cover, and upon closer inspection, she discovered it was Carmen's journal. The journal was thick and appeared quite old. Many pages at the front had been torn out, but entries resumed further back. Carmen had apparently torn out earlier entries and stopped writing for a while, possibly because her parents or younger brother had read them. But in the last six months, she had started writing again, occasionally recording her thoughts.

Felicia flipped through the pages, shocked to find several pages containing Carmen's suicide notes. The dates indicated they were written just days before Carmen was pushed to the brink and stood on the rooftop, ready to jump. She repeatedly wrote that she couldn't take it anymore and wanted to end everything. The entries were short and desperate.

Further on, a longer entry spanned two full pages. It was written the night she was about to jump from the rooftop but was saved by Felicia. That night, after the rest of the family had fallen asleep, Carmen wrote down her feelings at that old desk in the small, dimly lit storage room:

“Amid all the rumors drowning me like a wave, surrounded by cold, contemptuous gazes, I felt like a cornered rat, even starting to doubt my own worth. When I stood on the rooftop, I felt the free wind and imagined myself flying away, so I decided to jump. But I never expected someone to rush in, throwing themselves at me, catching me as I fell. The wind was so strong that day, her movement so dangerous—her arm scraped by the rough concrete edge of the rooftop, blood oozing out—but she was smiling, out of breath, saying, ‘I’m glad I made it in time.’ Words can’t describe how I felt. I just wanted to cry. It was as if I thought I had reached the end, but someone was there with me, giving me the courage to keep going. Felicia, thank you. Thank you for saving me when I was helpless.”

After reading the journal, Felicia stood still for a long time, lost in thought. To her, saving Carmen and helping her take revenge on the person who spread rumors was a small, simple thing. But to Carmen, this small act of kindness had been her redemption. In the end, she was even willing to sacrifice her life to shield Felicia from a bullet. Why was she so foolish?