The Echoes of Regret

As early winter sets in, the room is chillingly cold. I lie under the soft, white blankets, exhausted and unwilling to get out of bed. Yet I know I must rise; the wake-up bell has just rung, and it's 5 AM. I need to dress and gather for breakfast downstairs in twenty minutes. 

I am a lowly male servant at the Mo Meng Manor. 

Quickly, I put on my shirt and waistcoat, splash my face with cold water, and don my silver-white wig. Hanging on the rack is my black and white-striped servant's coat, which I ironed straight before bed. Carefully putting it on, I wear my white gloves and leather heels, glancing in the mirror to see a well-groomed reflection.

As I leave my room, I encounter Simon from next door. We don't have time to greet each other and hurriedly head to the servant's dining room.

The hall downstairs is bustling with activity. A lowly maid in a soiled apron is struggling to light the fireplace, filling the air with a choking smoke from damp kindling, clearly inexperienced. 

The housekeeper, Selina, rushes over, incredulous: "Good heavens! How could you be so foolish? You're driving me mad! Do you want to choke the masters at breakfast? Open the windows and let others help you with the fire!" She directs a few maids, her stern demeanor intimidating.

Selina, the manor's housekeeper, is in her forties, her brown hair neatly tied up. Always dressed in a plain black dress without any pattern, her serious nature instills fear in many; even the maid who made the mistake trembles before her.

Entering the servant's dining room, I find it full. The long table is lined with a few male servants in similar attire and a dozen maids in light pink dresses. I take my seat, quietly awaiting the arrival of the head steward.

As a lowly servant, I sit at the end of the table, beside Simon, who whispers that a new maid across from us is quite pretty. The buzzing conversation halts abruptly when the head steward, Aaron, walks in; everyone stands as he takes his place at the head of the table.

Aaron has served at Mo Meng Manor for nearly forty years, aging from a young man to a gray-haired steward. It is said his family has held this position for generations. After settling in, he gestures for everyone to sit, and we begin our meal in silence, focused on our food.

Suddenly, a bell rings, causing commotion as two rows of bells on the white walls shake. Selina stands up, announcing, "The lady is awake; bring her coffee."

The lady's two maids rush to the kitchen, abandoning their meals. One by one, servants leave the table, and Simon and I head to the main dining room to tidy the white tablecloth. 

As I fold it neatly into the basket, I fetch a freshly dried one and carefully spread it over the table. I iron out the wrinkles with a kettle of hot water until it's smooth. 

"Why are you so slow? Is it ready yet?" two senior male servants enter, setting a small table for silverware.

"It's done," I reply respectfully as I take the kettle away.

The senior servants arrange the silverware systematically, their demeanor dismissive towards us. 

"Why are you still here? Go do your tasks!" one snaps at us. 

Simon wants to learn from them, but they are unwilling to teach us what we shouldn't know, shooing us away. 

Reluctantly, we head to the kitchen, lively with activity. The chef, a large man with a belly, commands the kitchen staff like royalty. Freshly cooked dishes steam on silver platters, covered with shiny lids. I take a tray and stand at the main dining room door, waiting to serve once the masters are seated. 

Simon stands beside me, grumbling about the senior servants' arrogance. 

"What's so great about them? They're insufferable." 

"Shh, keep your voice down; they'll hear you," I warn. 

"One day, I'll be the personal servant to the lord," Simon declares. 

"To be a personal servant, you need to read," I remind him. 

"I'm learning spelling; Uncle John helped me buy books," he replies, glancing at the gloomy weather outside. "Are you going home today?" 

"I requested a half-day off from Aaron three months ago; rain or shine, I must return," I explain. 

"Why go back? To hand all your wages to your drunk mother?" 

"She has to support three kids; she needs the money," I reply. 

"Hopefully, she doesn't convert it all into alcohol," Simon retorts. "You'd be better off buying new shoes." 

I glance down at my worn heels; despite my diligent cleaning, they show signs of wear. It's undignified, and if Aaron notices, I could lose my position for bringing shame to the manor.

"A cobbler can fix them," I say, eyeing my shoes. My socks need replacing too. 

Worn shoes and patched shirts make me feel far worse than in my past life. 

I remember when I first became a lowly servant at Mo Meng Manor, clutching my hard-earned wages. Ambitious and eager, I spent all my money on decent clothes and books, bribing senior servants to teach me etiquette. 

The hurried day finally ends as I carry a basket of freshly baked bread down the country path. 

Early winter in Yorkshire is bleak, the grass overgrown. A few shepherds guide sheep past, while a mixed-breed dog darts among them. 

I take a deep breath, releasing white mist as the cold nips at my nose. This feeling is uncomfortable, recalling painful memories… 

A severely ill man lies on a shabby bed, struggling to breathe. 

The priest stands at his side, asking, "Are you Owen?" 

The man gasps, fear etched on his pale face: "Father… why are you here? Are you here to give me… communion?" 

"No, I won't allow you to take communion. You will recover. I'm here only because… if you wish to confess, I would welcome it. As a pastor, I always seek to bring my lost sheep back." 

After a long silence, the man nods slightly, still panting. 

"God's mercy is boundless, my child. Please say after me: 'I confess to the Almighty Lord… I confess to the ever-pure Mary…'" 

The priest pauses for the dying man to follow. Finally, he says, "Alright, confess…" 

The man whispers with all his strength, "I deceived him, betrayed him…" 

The priest repeats, "You are guilty for deceiving others…" 

The man's breath quickens, his body convulses, tears falling as he repeats, "Deceive him, betray him…" 

After a series of convulsions, his breathing fades away. 

The priest places a cross on the man and asks a neighbor, "Does he have any family?" 

The neighbor replies, "I don't know; he's lived alone…" 

A cold wind blows, and I shiver, shaking off the haunting memories. 

The chill of death feels all too fresh. 

I'm disoriented, unsure if I'm still dreaming. 

I am a lost lamb, burdened by sin. 

I wonder if the Lord has forgiven me. 

If forgiven, why do yesterday's events replay? 

If not forgiven, why am I burdened with these memories once more…