Chapter 488: Driven by Necessity

Back entrance of the brothel.

There is no perfume‑laden air or faint clamor like at the front entrance, only wet garments of various colors hanging on the drying ropes, plus a few large wooden basins and washboards.

A middle‑aged woman with a kind face and fine lines at the corners of her eyes was leading several noticeably younger girls, who clearly lacked the qualification to "receive customers", to wash the mountain‑high piles of sheets, clothes and towels.

Although the middle‑aged woman dressed plainly, she kept everything neat and tidy.

She deftly scrubbed a heavy linen sheet in her hands while methodically directing the girls:

"You're strong; take that twisted bundle of sheets and hang it on the rope to the east, stretch it flat, otherwise it'll have unsightly wrinkles when it dries."

"You Wash that basin of handkerchiefs, rinse it with clean water; leftover soapwort water can hurt the skin."

"Place the washed underskirts in this clean basket; after I check for any unwashed spots, I'll hang them."

Her tone wasn't harsh, even a bit homely nagging, and the girls obediently complied; the atmosphere, compared with the front courtyard's flamboyant clamor, felt more like the plain routine of a back‑kitchen.

The middle‑aged woman was fully absorbed in her work and the girls before her, not noticing that a tiny figure had silently slipped to her side.

She had just finished scrubbing the sheet, straightened up, and was about to turn for a water dipper to rinse—

"Ah!"

Her right elbow slammed into a small body beside her!

Caught off guard, she let out a startled cry, instinctively stepped back a large stride, and, still trembling, looked down.

She saw a boy of about seven or eight standing quietly beside where she had just been.

The boy wore an old yet freshly laundered linen short robe, his features were delicate, his skin a healthy wheat‑tone, and his cheeks bore the slight rosy hue typical of children.

Most striking were his eyes—large and clear—now calmly looking up at her, without the usual mischief or timidity of a child his age.

He seemed… a well‑brought‑up child, completely out of place in the brothel's back‑door setting.

The middle‑aged woman let out a long sigh, patted her chest to steady herself, then bent over, her face showing a mix of helplessness and amusement, and her tone softened:

"Little fellow, what are you doing here? Sneaking around, you gave me a fright."

She glanced around, lowered her voice, "This isn't a place for someone your age. Go home quickly; your parents will worry if they find out."

Jesus looked up at the kindly aunt, neither leaving because of her warning nor showing any shyness or unease, and answered earnestly:

"Auntie, I came to ask you some questions."

"Oh? Questions?" The middle‑aged woman was genuinely intrigued now.

A small boy who seemed to come from a decent, tidy family ran to the brothel's back entrance, not to peek or cause trouble, but to "ask questions"?

That was indeed unusual.

She straightened, wiped her hands on her apron, and nodded:

"Alright, little fellow, ask away; if I know it, I'll tell you."

She guessed perhaps the child was lost? Or curious about this place yet too shy to go to the front?

Having received permission, Jesus asked the question swirling in his mind, his tone blunt and unadorned:

"Why do you work here?"

The smile on the middle‑aged woman's face froze instantly, and her eyes grew somewhat complex.

"…………"

The question was too direct, even somewhat offensive.

If a grown man asked this, regardless of curiosity, contempt, or any other motive, she would likely set a stern face and even rebuke him to leave.

But seeing the youthful, earnest face before her, filled with sincere thirst for knowledge rather than any lewdness or discrimination, the irritation in her heart strangely faded.

The child… truly seemed only to want an answer.

His gaze was too pure.

She sighed, the breath heavy with fatigue and helplessness.

She bent over again, aligning her sight with Jesus, and spoke softly:

"Do you think… I chose to work here of my own accord?"

She didn't wait for Jesus to answer, her gaze drifting as if traveling back through time to long ago:

"Seeing your clean clothes and rosy little face, your parents must love you dearly and take good care of you, right?"

"But when I was young… my mother fell ill and died early, my mother…"

She paused, a bitter curve forming at the corner of her mouth:

"He was a gambler; everything the family could sell was sold, leaving a mountain of debt."

"In the end, with nothing left to sell, they sold me… brought me here, using me to scrape together a little money to pay the gambling debts."

"Then he kept gambling; I heard he was eventually thrown into the sea."

She raised her hand toward the few little girls working silently nearby, addressing them one by one:

"It's not just me. Look at them."

"The one hanging the sheets, Liya, has too many siblings at home; they couldn't feed all those mouths. Her parents had no choice but to sell her to traffickers, and after several transfers she ended up here."

"The one rinsing with clear water is Lina; her father fell gravely ill, lying at home without money for medicine, on the brink of death."

"She ran to the boss herself, kneeling and begging the boss to buy her..........."

Her finger moved to the last skinny girl bent over tidying a basket:

"That's Mary, she… uh, I've forgotten a bit."

She looked at the girl named Mary and called softly, "Mary, come over here for a moment."

Mary, hearing the voice, halted her actions, timidly lifted her head, and walked over.

She seemed only a few years older than Jesus, slender, with a slightly pallid complexion, her gaze perpetually downcast, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes.

"Mary, tell him, how did you originally come here?"

Mary glanced quickly at Jesus, then immediately lowered her head: "I… my family all died, a ghost appeared in our village, many people died.........."

"I... can't..."

She didn't elaborate on what happened after "can't", perhaps it was wandering, perhaps being deceived and trafficked, but the outcome was the same.

The middle‑aged woman patted Mary's frail shoulder with pity, told her to go back to continue working, then turned back and let out a long sigh toward Jesus:

"Did you see? Child, we're all... can't help it."

Her eyes were full of helplessness: "You have your parents' love, you don't worry about food and drink, you grew up safely, so you can't understand why some people would 'choose' to work in a place like this."

"Often it's not 'choice', it's 'no choice.'"

"I... am okay, average looking, already older, just doing the odd jobs at the back, looking after these kids who haven't grown up yet. It's hard, but I don't have to attend to those guests, whereas those pretty, just‑right‑aged girls..."

"Go home, child," the middle‑aged woman finally brushed Jesus's hair lightly, her gesture carrying a seasoned protector's concern for an innocent child:

"This isn't where you belong; don't make your parents worry."

After speaking, she no longer looked at Jesus, turned and resumed the Wash of clothes, as if the earlier conversation were just a tiny interlude in a busy life.

Jesus stood in place, pursing his lips, his small brows tightly knit.

The middle‑aged woman's words, like heavy stones, pressed on his heart one by one.

"Can't","no choice","dead","sold","to fetch medicine"... these words intertwined with the "sin","impurity","law" he'd heard in the hall, making him feel an unprecedented confusion and heaviness.

He watched the backs of those girls bent over washing and drying, their ages similar to or slightly older than his, and for the first time felt so vividly that another, completely different life—full of helplessness and suffering—existed in the world.

He stood there for a long while, until the middle‑aged woman was called away by a thin female voice from the front yard, apparently to attend to something.

At the back door only a few girls and the splashing water remained.

After a long while, Jesus stepped forward and went to the side of the girl named Mary.

Mary was standing on tiptoe, straining to hang the last heavy, wet sheet onto the high clothesline, finding it difficult.

Jesus didn't help right away; he waited until she managed to hook one corner of the sheet up, then spoke softly, calling her name:

"Mary."