In the bitter cold of the night, the old man lay on the damp earth, his back pressed against the cold stone of a bridge. The harsh winds whipped around him, carrying the scent of decay and despair. His body, frail from years of forced labor and neglect, ached with every movement. He had been thrown out of the black brick kiln, left to die by the roadside like so many before him. Only his failing health—his weakness—had earned him the twisted mercy of being discarded, freed from the shackles of forced labor.

The old man struggled to lift his head, and memories of the past 18 years surged through his mind, crashing into him like waves. He remembered the suffocating air of the kiln, the constant fear, the ceaseless exhaustion. He had been beaten. Starved. Forced to work day and night under the watchful eyes of the cruel guards, who treated him like less than an animal. But it wasn’t just the guards he feared. It was the savage dogs—brutal, starved wolves that would tear at anything they were told to. They were always close, watching, waiting for a moment of weakness.

And the beatings—every lash was a reminder that he was nothing. Every blow marked his body and soul. He remembered the first time they had come to inspect the kiln, a group of police officers. His heart had leapt with hope. Perhaps they were there to free them all, to stop the hell they were living in. But when the officers arrived, they spoke casually with the owner, exchanging knowing glances, as if it were a meeting of old friends. The old man’s joy had turned to disbelief, and then to despair. The police had walked away, indifferent to the cries and suffering of the men chained to the kiln. No one came for them. Not then, not ever.

In the cold of the night, he sobbed, unable to hold back the tears that streamed down his worn, wrinkled face. He thought of the young men who were still trapped there. Thirty-one of them—each one with a different story, each one as lost as he had been. The new arrivals, their faces filled with terror as they were dragged into the hell that awaited them. They fought back, they screamed, but the more they resisted, the harder they were beaten. He had seen it all, the blood, the bruises, the hopelessness.

But now, all that was left for him was the bitter taste of regret. The best years of his life had been stolen from him by the cruel hands of those who controlled the kiln. He had been reduced to a slave, to nothing more than a tool for their profit. The man who had once dreamed of a different life, a life with meaning, had been erased. He didn’t even remember where he came from, or what had become of his family. He had no home, no name, no future. His entire existence had been consumed by suffering and toil.

And now, in the darkness, with the cold wind gnawing at his bones, he wept—not just for himself, but for the young men still trapped, for the countless others whose lives had been stolen. He was free, but at what cost? His life had been a cycle of pain, and it was too late to go back and change anything.

The tears froze on his cheeks as he cried out in anguish. He was a man without a past, without a future. His only memories were of pain and fear. His life, so full of promise, had been devoured by the nightmare of the black brick kiln. The sound of his own sobs filled the silence of the night, as he lay there, abandoned by the world, with only the wind to keep him company.

And in that moment, he knew: even in freedom, there could be no escape from the torment of the years lost, the lives wasted. His body was free, but his spirit was still shackled, forever bound to the horrors he had endured.