One autumn, we went to a farm to harvest rice. During the break, I was playing and laughing with my classmates and some seniors. But in the middle of our laughter, all my classmates suddenly scattered. I was left alone, surrounded by the seniors. Before I could even think, fists rained down on my head. In that moment, I felt wronged and confused, and I really wished there was a container to wrap around me and protect me.
When I got home, my mom held me and said, “Don’t be afraid. Mom is here.” That’s when I finally felt safe. She pointed to the drawing paper on my desk and said, “If you’re feeling bad, draw out what’s in your heart.”
I held my paintbrush and, without realizing it, drew a blue sea. There was a small fish in the sea—that was me. At first, the fish was swimming slowly in the calm water. But suddenly, a group of big sharks appeared in the distance, their shadows getting closer and closer. Just then, a transparent safe bottle floated up beside the small fish. It hurried inside. When I finished drawing that part, I suddenly felt relieved. Just like how I’d longed for protection back then, the moment the little fish hid in the bottle, the world went quiet—no fear, no grievance.