The Dove’s Secret: A Prisoner’s Journey to Redemption

Reading that note, I was overcome with astonishment and joy that knew no bounds. My affection for the dove grew even stronger with each passing day. It soon became a routine—she would bring me a gift daily from my unseen friend.

One day, she brought me a vibrant, beautiful flower. Along with it was a note that read:

"Today is your mother’s birthday. To celebrate her joy, I send you this flower. Try to look beyond the troubles you are currently facing. These trials will test you but also fortify your strengths. Farewell."

I was bewildered yet again. How could this unseen companion know the details of my life? The identity of Freedom remained a mystery to me and still does. But one thing I cannot deny is that without her guidance, I might still be imprisoned within these walls. Her encouragement was the light that kept me from succumbing to the crushing weight of my hardships. Truly, it was her intervention that secured my current freedom.

It was a Sunday morning. The bright, warm rays of the sun poured into my room. Somewhere nearby, the church bell tolled melodiously. The soothing sound, coupled with the sunlit view through the iron bars of my window, stirred a flood of emotions within me. I longed to be a bird, soaring beyond these bars, exploring the lush, green fields. Or perhaps a tiny insect, small enough to slip through the narrowest crevice that might lead to freedom.

Suddenly, I heard the flutter of wings at the window, followed by the soft cooing of my dove. I reached out, holding her gently against my chest.

"My dear dove, how did I endure these mountain-like days without you? In this misery, with no friends or allies, you have been the sole comfort of my weary heart."

Around her neck was tied another note. I untied it and read:

"Rejoice, for the end of your suffering is near! By God’s grace, my plans have succeeded. I will be waiting for you outside the prison gates in a black carriage. Until then, farewell.

Yours,

Freedom."

As I read the note, I trembled at first and then sank onto my bed. For a while, I struggled to grasp the meaning of this strange, hope-filled message. But soon, a surge of immense joy swept through me, so powerful that I couldn’t help but shout in excitement.

I shared the incident with the prisoners in the cells nearby, but they dismissed it as a prank by the police.

"The dove must’ve fallen into the hands of the guards," they said mockingly. "They’re just toying with you."

Despite their words, the spark of hope within me refused to dim. And though the thought of parting from the prison walls—and from my loyal companions, the mouse, and the dove—filled me with sorrow, the idea of impending freedom brought tears to my eyes.

That night, right on time, someone unlocked the door to my cell. I looked up to see the warden, who said,

"Someone wishes to meet you."

In the corridor stood two guards, their swords glinting in the dim light. One asked my name, and when I confirmed it, he instructed me to follow him.

A whirlwind of emotions churned within me, rendering me unable to speak. They draped a yellow garment over my shoulders—the kind typically worn by the mentally ill—and motioned for me to walk behind them. I was bewildered.

What is happening? Am I being transferred from prison to a madhouse?

The thought alone was chilling enough to freeze the blood in my veins.

Finally, they led me into a room where the prison officer sat at a desk, a large register open before him. He gestured for me to sign, and after I did, he spoke:

"You are free to go."

The heavy gates of the prison creaked open, and I stepped out. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was outside. Free.

Ah, the breeze of freedom—it was intoxicatingly sweet! The moon above seemed to smile down upon my good fortune, and the entire scene was so enchanting that I felt almost drunk with joy. My legs trembled, making it hard to take even a few steps.

Not far ahead, a black carriage awaited. My feet, as if drawn by an invisible force, carried me toward it. From within, a voice called softly:

"I have been waiting for you."

I opened the window of the carriage and peered inside. Seated within was a veiled woman. Beneath the thick fabric of her veil, two luminous black eyes sparkled like stars. In a daze, I climbed into the carriage.

The carriage rolled onward until it stopped in front of a church. A few priests were already there, chanting hymns and reciting prayers. During this time, the woman and I stood side by side, our hands intertwined. When the ceremony ended, she handed me a single rose. I took it, still lost in a fog of bewilderment, and we returned to the carriage.

After some time, I gathered the courage to ask,

"What was the purpose of that ceremony?"

She replied with a faint smile,

"Call it a prayer meeting or a celebration, whatever you wish."

"But who are you? And how did you arrange my release?" I pressed.

"That, I cannot answer," she said firmly.

The carriage eventually stopped near a railway station. The mysterious lady handed me a ticket and personally escorted me to the train. As the train began to move, I shook her hand one last time, unable to resist asking,

"Who are you? Please, for the love of God, don’t keep this secret from me!"

In response, she lifted her veil, revealing a face that was the very embodiment of divine beauty. She smiled and said,

"My name is —Freedom. Farewell."

Ah, that face! If anyone in this transient world could be the living image of perfect grace, it was hers.

The train sped away, but the encounter left me utterly spellbound. I sat in stunned silence, lost in the whirlwind of what had just transpired. Finally, after covering a great distance, the train stopped at a small station. Under the dim lamplight, I checked the ticket and saw the name of the station—the one closest to my home.

And so, my story ends. Perhaps I should add that, like any curious listener, I have never discovered who my selfless benefactress truly was. What was her real name? Why did she grant me freedom?

The rose she handed me at the church—its dried petals remain in my possession to this day. Sometimes, gazing at them, I am reminded of those days of captivity. A time that, to one who now lives amidst worldly joys, feels like nothing more than a distant and terrifying nightmare.