"I love this time of day," Grace murmurs, her voice light as she unwraps her sandwich. "Not completely dark, but semi-dark. That bluish vibe… it's like the world is holding its breath."
She takes a big bite of her double egg and bacon sandwich, chewing contentedly.
Harry lets out a chuckle and nods in agreement, biting into his own cheese and ham sandwich with equal enthusiasm. Crumbs fall onto his jeans, but he doesn't care.
They sit in comfortable silence, gazing out at the nearly deserted campus street. A few scattered students pass by, footsteps soft against the pavement. Leaves rustle in the breeze, their amber and crimson colors barely visible in the dimming light. The air carries a cool crispness—classic autumn, wrapping around them like a quiet song.
Grace blinks slowly, letting the peacefulness soak in. But her mind drifts.
What is Professor Julian doing right now? she wonders. He texted me earlier that he was heading home… and I never replied. I meant to, once I finished that paragraph…
"Grace?"
She looks to her right, pulled gently back into the moment.
"Yeah?" she replies.
Harry laughs softly, tipping his head toward her.
"What are you thinking about?"
Grace lets out a small laugh too, caught.
Before she can answer, Harry gives her a half-grin.
"Well, the elective course feels a little empty without you, you know."
She raises an eyebrow, amused.
"It's been weeks since I dropped out."
"Yeah, I know," Harry says, chuckling. "But still… it's dull without you. I got used to hearing your endless questions."
Grace laughs.
"I know you're doing fine in that class. You told me you actually love Professor Julian's lectures."
Harry shrugs with mock guilt.
"Okay, that's kind of true. His lectures are weirdly good. Like... scary good."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it quickly.
"Wanna see something?"
Grace leans closer as he turns the screen toward her.
It's a clean, modern sketch of wide cargo pants—carefully detailed, with stitching and layered pockets. The design is stylish, functional, a bit street-inspired but wearable.
Grace's brows lift.
"That's a good design. Where's it from?"
Harry's face lights up mischievously.
"Me," he says, tapping the corner of the screen.
Grace looks at him in surprise.
"Really?"
He nods, laughing now.
"Yeah. I sketched it last night. I had a weird dream about military wear and a school uniform crossover and somehow this came out."
"It's good. I don't know anything about fashion design, but it definitely looks good," Grace says, nodding thoughtfully. "Is this like… your new hobby or something?"
Harry lets out a soft chuckle, lifting his shoulders in a casual shrug.
"I don't know if I should start taking this more seriously," he says, eyes drifting momentarily toward the fabric on the table.
Grace narrows her eyes slightly, tilting her head.
"What do you mean, 'take it more seriously'? I thought we were doing this master's to get into med school and eventually become professors here."
Harry only chuckles again—quieter this time, almost to himself. He doesn't offer a real answer.
Grace watches him for a second longer. There's something in his silence. A pause too long. A smile too empty. She senses it—an unspoken weight hanging in the space between them. But she doesn't push. Something tells her he's not ready to talk about it yet.
"Harry?"
Harrison's eyes widen slightly as he steps into the grand living room, his assistant trailing discreetly behind him. The maid approaches wordlessly and receives his jacket. He nods in polite acknowledgment before making his way to the center sofa.
The room glows under the warm evening lights, revealing its grandeur—marble floors, ornate chandeliers, and furniture that speaks of wealth and legacy. It's the kind of place one only sees in magazines or the homes of the ultra-rich. But for Harry, it's simply the house he grew up in—distant and echoing.
Harrison lowers himself onto the center sofa and lifts the mug waiting for him from the coffee table, fingers wrapping around the porcelain.
"It's been quite a while," he says, his voice calm but laced with surprise.
Harry rises from the side sofa a few feet away, smoothing down his trousers. He bows politely.
"Hello, Dad."
Harrison meets his son's eyes—genuine, a little weary, but sincere. They haven't truly talked in years. Ever since Harry graduated from university and turned down the clear path laid before him—joining the family's global fashion company—there's been a silent space between them. Harrison had imagined mentoring his son into leadership, molding him to carry the name forward. But Harry had chosen otherwise. He entered graduate school, diving into a field far removed from the glittering world of fashion and legacy.
Since then, they've only crossed paths on holidays or formal occasions. Even then, Harry mostly spoke with his mother. His father remained a distant presence—cordial but disappointed.
That's why Harrison is taken aback tonight. It's not just that his son is here, sitting in the same room—it's that he's waiting for him.
"So," Harrison says, studying his son with composed but searching eyes, "what brings you here all of a sudden?"
Harry lets out a small, uncertain chuckle and shrugs.
"This is where my parents live. I figured I should drop by."
Harrison smiles faintly, leaning back against the sofa.
"Haha, right. You're not wrong. This is always your home. You can come anytime you want. It's just…" He pauses, the smile softening into something more bittersweet. "You haven't visited often. Not since we started... seeing things differently about your future."
There's no bitterness in his tone, just a quiet ache—an echo of all the conversations they never had.
Harry lowers his gaze, sensing the sorrow behind his father's steady eyes. He's always known what was expected of him—as the only son, the heir to everything built before him.
But growing up in that shadow, he feared the truth he kept hidden: he never truly saw himself in that role. And now, standing here in the home that still feels more like a museum than a memory, he wonders if he ever really had the courage to explain why.
Now, standing face to face with Harrison—the chairman of the globally renowned Harrison Fashion Group and a man whose name alone has shaped trends across continents—Harry feels the full weight of the moment pressing down on him.
For the first time, he truly sees the man before him—not just as a father, but as someone who's carried the burden of legacy, of expectation, and perhaps… loneliness. A loneliness that must have deepened each time his son drifted further away from the path carved out for him.
"I came to tell you," Harry begins, steadying his breath, "that I want to start over. I want to go back to fashion design. From the bottom."
Harrison's hand freezes midair, mug still halfway to his lips. His eyes narrow—not with anger, but disbelief.
"What did you just say?"
Harry doesn't flinch. His voice is firm now, unwavering. "I want to return to the fashion design I once learned under you. I want to take it seriously this time—and start from the ground up."
There's a moment of silence as Harrison sets his mug down on the small lacquered table beside him. The sound of porcelain touching wood echoes faintly through the vast living room.
"I heard you," he says, slowly. "But where is this coming from all of a sudden?"
Harry meets his father's gaze with unwavering sincerity.
"Dad… I know I disappointed you when I didn't join the company. I know it brought you sorrow—and maybe even worry. I shattered the future you envisioned for me, the one you carefully built."
Harrison doesn't speak. He only watches, his eyes searching his son's face as if seeing it anew.
Harry continues, voice soft but resolute. "But me coming here today… telling you I'm returning to fashion design… it doesn't mean I'm joining the company. Not necessarily."
Harrison nods, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. There's a glint of amusement behind his eyes now.
Right. If he came waltzing in saying he wants to inherit the company, then he wouldn't be my son—he wouldn't be Harry, he thinks with a faint chuckle.
"Go on," Harrison says simply, folding one leg over the other, leaning back with interest.
"I just wanted you to know," Harry says, his voice clearer now, "that I've decided. I'm starting over. I'll find my own place in the fashion world and begin from there. Not as your son. Not as the chairman's heir. Just like me. Harry."
Harrison leans forward, placing his hands on his chin, elbows propped on his knees. He studies his son in thoughtful silence, brows slightly furrowed. The quiet stretches between them like a thread pulled taut.
"What changed your mind?" he finally asks, his voice low and measured. "I thought you'd left this field for good."
Harry doesn't answer immediately. His gaze drops to the polished surface of the sofa table, where a faint reflection of his face stares back at him. The silence lingers as he wrestles with the words inside his chest. Then, slowly, he lifts his head, eyes clearer than before.