At the news that a distinguished guest was coming, my stepmother, with a dissatisfied face, told the maids to give me clean clothes. Though it was just a shabby shirt and trousers, I was not to be a blemish on the household. I don't know how many times I fidgeted with the stiff shirt, which I hadn't worn in a long time, with my fingertips.

I heard that the lady my second older brother proposed to is that lady. Her appearance as she stepped off the carriage was so elegant that it stole my gaze. I didn't know a person could be that beautiful. You acted like a lady who had never stepped on anything dirty in the world. No, that must have been the case. You wouldn't know anything about the dirt floors of a stable or horse waste.

The hand that greeted you—the hand of my second brother, who used to beat me like a dog—could do such a thing. Perhaps you don't know. You don't know how cruel the man holding your hand is. Or perhaps, even if you knew, you wouldn't care. That's probably what noble love is like. Ignoring each other's flaws might be part of elegant etiquette.

I bowed my head to you with my most docile and pitiful face. So that I could be reflected in your eyes.

I heard Cinderella had glass slippers, but all I had was a face covered in ash, cunning lips, and a heart ready to kneel willingly to win someone's love. My name is a flower. Please, pluck this flower by its roots. I muttered to myself.

I kissed the back of your outstretched hand. I didn't know the formalities or etiquette, but I knew that people usually did this. I looked up and smiled beautifully.

My Lady, would it be alright if I kissed your shoes? There could be no greater honor for me than that.