Reality

The moment the door was pushed open, a damp, musty smell immediately rushed over him.

Dozens of senior students were already sitting inside. Some were asleep face-down on their desks, some were looking down reading novels, and a few in the back rows were secretly passing cigarettes around.

The teachers stood along the sides, turning a blind eye to it all. Only when the principal walked up to the podium did the assembly hall manage to quiet down.

“Ahem.”

The principal tapped on the desk.

“We have an alumnus visiting us today, Mr. Ryan, who currently works at the East End archive.”

A sudden stir rippled through the room. Many students looked up, beginning to take a serious look at the young man on the podium.

His uniform, briefcase, chest emblem, and dark-tinted glasses made him look quite different from the government workers they had imagined.

After a brief introduction, the principal stepped aside, yielding the podium to him.

The hall fell quiet again as dozens of eyes locked onto Ryan, waiting for him to speak.

Standing before the podium, Ryan didn't open his documents right away. Instead, he quietly observed the crowd below.

They were so young—sixteen, seventeen years old. Some were not even legal adults yet.

Yet Ryan knew that in another year, most of them would leave school. Some would enter factories, some would head to the docks, some would become apprentices, and others would simply vanish into the masses, never to be remembered again.

After a few seconds of silence, Ryan suddenly spoke.

“What do you plan to do after graduation?”

The crowd froze. Clearly, no one had expected him to ask this first.

A few seconds later, someone shouted from the back, “The docks!”

Laughter instantly erupted in the hall.

“A factory!”

“Hauling coal!”

“Work in a tavern!”

“Or starve to death!”

When that last line came out, the laughter only grew louder. Even the teachers shook their heads in resignation.

But Ryan didn't laugh, because those answers were the reality.

He quietly waited for the laughter to die down, then nodded.

“Those all sound pretty familiar.”

The hall gradually grew quiet.

“When I graduated, I walked that exact same path. First, I went to the docks to haul cargo—twelve hours a day, for wages that barely covered rent.”

“Later, I worked in a warehouse, and then in a factory. In the end, I didn't save much money, but I did manage to ruin my health first.”

The laughter below completely faded. These experiences were far too familiar. Almost everyone had someone like that in their family—a father, an older brother, an uncle, or even a neighbor.

They all knew what that meant. It meant poverty, it meant illness, and it meant a life where they could never see an end to the struggle.

Ryan continued, “Later, I went to the archive. I started as a temporary clerk, copying files, death registries, and census records every single day until my hands cramped.”

A few chuckles rippled through the hall, easing the atmosphere slightly.

“And then what?” Someone couldn't help but ask.

Ryan glanced at him.

“And then my luck was decent enough that I'm still sitting here today.”

The hall suddenly fell silent. Many students were stunned.

“That's it?”

“Pretty much,” Ryan nodded.

“I wasn't dragged into a machine, I didn't break my legs at the docks, I didn't end up sleeping on the streets in winter, and when I fell ill, I had somewhere to go.”

His voice was calm, yet it made the room grow quieter and quieter, because everyone knew these things happened every single day.

Standing to the side, the principal's gaze toward Ryan shifted.

He realized this young man was far cleverer than those government officials. He didn't talk about dreams, nor did he talk about the future. He spoke of survival—and that was exactly what the youth of the East End cared about most.

Ryan finally opened his folder.

“The East End archive. A formal clerk's monthly salary starts at five pounds.”

The breathing of many below visibly hitched.

Five pounds was by no means a small sum for an ordinary family.

“Temporary clerks make twelve shillings a week, with the chance to become formal clerks after passing an evaluation.”

Whispers began to break out in the hall. Some were clearly tempted.

However, Ryan quickly added, “But don't celebrate just yet. This money isn't easy to earn. Literacy, document formatting, shorthand, statistics, error rates—you will be tested on all of these.”

Much of the enthusiasm that had just risen was instantly doused.

Someone couldn't help but frown.

“That much trouble?”

Ryan nodded.

“It is quite a bit of trouble. After all, people who can carry crates are everywhere, but those who can write clearly are not nearly as common.”

The hall fell completely silent. Many even lowered their heads instinctively, knowing their handwriting was indeed terrible, and some couldn't even write a complete letter.

Ryan scanned the crowd, suddenly remembering when the body's original owner had sat here, equally poor, lost, and desperately searching for a way out.

He fell silent for a moment, then spoke slowly:

“If anyone ever asks me what the youth of the East End are lacking, I probably wouldn't just say they lack opportunity.”

The hall was so quiet that only the whistling of the wind could be heard.

“Sometimes when opportunity comes, it won't knock in advance. It only counts as an opportunity if you recognize it.”

The expressions of many students gradually grew serious. For the first time, they were truly listening, rather than treating this presentation as a way to skip class.

Ryan closed the folder, his voice remaining steady.

“I can't guarantee that you'll get into the archive, nor can I guarantee that everything will be smooth sailing once you do.”

“But one thing is always true: when opportunity comes knocking on your door, it's best not to let it find you completely unprepared.”

“Practice your writing, read more books. Even if you just start by learning how to write a complete sentence, it won't go to waste.”

A heavy silence filled the hall. There was no applause, nor were there any cheers. These words were not inspiring, and were even somewhat harsh, but everyone knew he was telling the truth.

In the distance, the bell slowly began to toll. The presentation was over.

The students began to file out one after another. Some walked with their heads down in thought, some remained entirely indifferent, and others secretly took an application form.

Ryan sat behind a long table near the side of the hall, organizing his documents.

The principal stood beside him and let out a sigh.

“Your speech was far more effective than me lecturing them all day.”

Ryan smiled.

“Perhaps they're just tired of hearing yours.”

The principal snorted.

“That's not entirely impossible.”

Just then, at the entrance of the hall, a tall, thin boy stopped in his tracks.

He didn't leave immediately, but instead stood at the back of the crowd. Students filed past him one by one, some with their arms over each other's shoulders, others laughing and discussing where they would work tonight.

The boy didn't budge, merely looking down and clutching his hat in his hands, his knuckles turning white.

Ryan had been organizing his files, but caught sight of him from the corner of his eye, as the boy had been standing there for nearly five minutes.

The principal saw him too and shook his head.

“That boy is Thomas. His grades aren't bad, but his family's situation is quite difficult.”

Ryan looked up.

“How so?”

The principal sighed.

“His father had an accident in a factory the year before last and lost a leg. His mother washes clothes to support the family, and he has two younger brothers. He graduates in half a year, and he'll likely have to head to the docks too.”

The principal stopped there, for they both knew what going to the docks entailed.

The crowd in the hall grew thinner and thinner, until finally, only that boy remained standing by the door.

After a long moment, he finally took a deep breath and slowly walked over, his soles making a soft tapping sound against the wooden floorboards.

When he reached the table, Ryan realized the boy was even thinner than he had imagined.

His uniform was visibly old, the cuffs worn white, and the collar even patched with stitches. Red scars from frostbite cracked across the backs of his hands—the unmistakable mark of someone who did manual labor year-round.

Standing before the table, the boy opened his mouth but failed to say a word, appearing quite nervous.