when I discovered my value

Alexander had left his father's house without a word, without a single glance back. No confrontation, no argument, just a quiet departure.

It was the girl who had made everything clear to him. As Alexander walked away from his father's house, the weight of the past seemed to lift from his shoulders, but there was something else in his hand—something he hadn't noticed until now. A small, worn coin, cold and smooth against his palm. It had been there for hours, unnoticed, as if it had always belonged there.The coin wasn't just a token. It was a symbol. She had given it to him not as a beggar, not out of pity, but as an equal, someone who understood what it was like to feel lost. The truth hit him like a wave: he had been begging for his father's approval, begging for a life that was never his own. But this coin—this simple, humble gesture—was telling him something more.

He wasn't a beggar. He wasn't asking for anything from anyone anymore, not from his father, not from anyone. The coin was a reminder that he didn't need to seek permission to live his life. He had everything he needed right here, in his own hands.

The coin was worn and old, but in that moment, it felt like the most valuable thing he had ever possessed. It wasn't the price of the coin that mattered—it was the truth it carried, the reminder that he was capable of choosing his own path, of defining his own worth.

He stared at it again, almost as if trying to peer inside it, searching for an answer that wasn't immediately apparent. The coin hadn't been in use. It had been left behind, abandoned, forgotten—much like parts of his own life.

But the coin was different. It was an artifact, left behind in the forgotten corners of the world, and perhaps that was where he needed to look—into the forgotten places within himself.The coin, which hadn't been in use for years, now felt like the most valuable thing he owned. It wasn't its physical worth that mattered. It was what it symbolized—the past that had been hidden, the pieces of his life that had been left in the shadows, forgotten and abandoned. But now, they had surfaced.

"Why am I so difficult?" he muttered aloud, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Like numeric... complex, unsolvable."

He let out a dry chuckle, staring at the coin as if it could answer him. The simplicity of the object seemed to mock him in that moment. Numeric, he thought—like a puzzle, a series of numbers, equations, things that couldn't be easily figured out. Everything about him felt like that lately—like an unsolved riddle, a constant contradiction between who he was and who others wanted him to be.

He laughed again, this time more quietly, as the realization hit him. It wasn't that he was difficult—it was that he was trying to find something that others couldn't see. He was searching for his own path, for the answers that only he could find. And in a way, that was beautiful. Being difficult, like numeric, wasn't a curse. It was a gift.

"Maybe I'm just a puzzle," he muttered to himself, "And maybe that's okay."

Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn't see the scene unfolding ahead of him.

A drunken man was standing in the middle of the street, swaying and shouting. He was holding a stick, and beside him lay a dog, clearly injured and shaking, its fur matted with blood. The man raised the stick again, ready to strike.

Alexander's heart pounded in his chest. He hadn't seen anything like this before. The dog whimpered, trying to crawl away from the cruel blows, its eyes wide with terror. The drunken man was too lost in his own rage to notice the world around him, too consumed by whatever demons haunted him.

Without thinking, Alexander rushed forward, his feet carrying him faster than his mind could process. He didn't know why he did it—maybe it was the sense of injustice, or maybe it was something deeper. But he couldn't just stand there. He grabbed the man's arm, yanking the stick from his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" Alexander shouted, his voice filled with fury. The man looked at him, bleary-eyed, his expression one of surprise and annoyance. But when he saw the anger in Alexander's eyes, he stumbled back, cursing under his breath.

"You don't deserve to hurt anyone," Alexander said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. "Get out of here."

The drunken man didn't put up much of a fight. He staggered away, muttering curses as he disappeared into the night.

Alexander turned his attention to the dog. It was a small, battered creature, its coat a dull shade of brown, its body trembling. He knelt down beside it, his hand shaking slightly as he reached out to comfort the animal. It whimpered but didn't pull away.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice soft and soothing. He knew the dog was in pain, but he also knew it had suffered far worse. The dog looked up at him with its big, sad eyes, as if it could understand the weight of the moment.

In that instant, Alexander felt something click inside him. The coin in his pocket, it wasn't about solving a puzzle or figuring out the meaning of some cryptic message. It was about action. It was about choosing to stand up when everything seemed wrong, about offering compassion when it was most needed.

The dog needed help, and Alexander had stepped in. That was the choice that mattered. He had done something. He had acted. And in doing so, he had found his way.

As he stood up and gently helped the dog to its feet, he realized that maybe the answers weren't in finding something hidden. Maybe they were in the choices we make, in the actions we take when no one is watching.

With the dog now by his side, Alexander walked on, the coin still in his pocket, but the questions in his heart beginning to fade. Maybe the journey wasn't about finding the right number—it was about being the right person.

"I feel an undeniable connection with this coin, and now that the dog has been saved and the coin rests in my hand, it symbolizes the truth that everything unfolds at its own perfect moment." He muttered to himself.