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“Where, Then, Is My Beauty?”

As the shadow of the Trojan walls burned under the crimson of the setting sun, I walked among the stones. My footsteps followed the echoes of screams, vows, and betrayals that had once resounded here centuries ago. There was no one left. It was as if the city already knew me, and chose silence instead.

I was in search of the beauty that legends spoke of, the face said to have caused wars, a single name: Helen. But what I truly sought was not a woman, it was an answer. Why can a person not see the beauty they possess, yet always search for it in others? Why is the heart most blind to itself?

The room inside the tower almost seemed to breathe. Between the stone walls, in the light of a candle, stood a statue: Helen. Her marble body, silent as if defying time itself, her eyes fixed on a distant past. Before her, my strength left me. I fell to one knee; my head raised toward her face. Perhaps this was beauty but it was also the greatest curse.



Then, a crystal-like whisper rose from within me, as if flowing from the statue’s lips, though the voice was not truly hers:
“The sorrowful tears I have shed are for both you and my pitiful self. There is no one left. Farewell, and thank you.”

In that moment, I understood. Helen had never truly been in Troy, nor on the face of a Spartan queen. All my journeys, all my destruction, all my searching had only led me back to myself just like a traveler who seeks a treasure in distant lands, only to find it at the place where they began.

Among the ashes of Troy, I had discovered the ruins of my own heart. And at last, beauty was there in the very center of my loneliness.