06:38 a.m. — 28 minutes before the school gates closed.
In the kitchen, at the dining table, Andrew and Joanna sat across from each other. A few simple dishes were neatly arranged between them—fried eggs, fried chicken, and corn cut into pieces, all placed on white plates.
"How's that new school?" Joanna asked, not looking up from her food.
"Fine," Andrew said. "The same as always."
"Better than that worthless dump you chose for yourself," she remarked.
Andrew stayed calm, lifting his spoon and taking a bite. "It'd be better if that mouth of yours was used in a courtroom instead of comparing your two sons," he said, tone steady but sharp as a blade.
"You're still bringing that up?"
"As long as it keeps my emotions satisfied, why not?"
Joanna fell silent for a moment. Now she realized—time had truly changed her son.
"When Brother was still alive, full of passion and unmatched spirit, why did you kill his dream? If he couldn't meet your expectations, why keep chaining him down? If you had supported him, he wouldn't have run away—and died." Andrew spoke as if the word died were ordinary. "Just because he wasn't good at academics, did he look like a pig to you?"
"H-He—" Joanna didn't get to finish. Andrew's voice cut through hers, firm and loud.
"He was your son! Your firstborn who carried all your expectations—and he was the one I loved most! How could you treat him like a machine you could control? Where's your conscience as his mother?!"
The words burst out—questions that had never once left his lips in years. Of course Joanna was shocked; Andrew had finally unleashed all the anger and disappointment he'd buried.
"Is basketball that low in your eyes? Do you hate it that much? You hated us the moment we got close to it! You insulted him just because his test scores didn't meet your standards. Now look at me! My grades are even worse than his—so why don't you insult me the way you insulted him?! Where are those words? 'Useless brat'? 'Stupid pig'? 'Worthless sport'?!"
He placed his spoon on the edge of his plate.
Andrew's elbows rested on the table, his trembling hands covering his face as tears slid down his cheeks.
"Why... why must someone great like him die before reaching his dream..."
Joanna lowered her head. Her mind echoed with his sharp words and burning questions. 'Why? Why did I do all that? I... I...' Her tears fell. 'I've been a failed mother.'
"I-I'm sorry... I failed to be a mother to both of you."
Their plates sat apart. The steam from the corn drifted faintly, yet the air felt dead. Andrew idly stirred his food.
"Why is it always about grades?" he muttered, voice low and fading. Joanna said nothing, her right hand covering her face before she bowed her head. "I'm tired of perfection—of being forced to be something I'm not. I'll live my own way from now on. Live your life without worrying about your 'lowly son.' I'll live without your help or your rules."
No more words. Only the sound of a spoon falling and the ragged rhythm of breathing. Andrew stood, set his plate aside, and turned away without waiting for an answer.
"Don't open my door. I'm not feeling well enough for school today. You—go to work before you're late."
And then, Andrew walked out of the kitchen.
On the table, the half-eaten meal remained—a silent witness to everything that had been said.
•••
Andrew sat at the edge of his bed. His eyes wandered, finally landing on a photograph on his desk.
The face in it was warm, the smile bright, the laughter alive—filling every corner of Andrew's once-controlled life. Arron Swan.
'He was the one who introduced me to basketball back in elementary school, even though Mom scolded us for it.'
'...Why do I keep mourning his death?'
His eyes drifted to a blue-and-white jersey lying carelessly on the floor—Arron, 2.
'I... want to continue his dream.'
'He died in an accident on his way to a streetball event when I was still in middle school—his final year at Almorus Sports High. He never joined a formal basketball club, not even once. He learned everything himself, through the internet or the streets.'
A memory flashed—Ririn's voice.
"For you. Do it for yourself. Don't let foolish things steal your passion. You said you value the process. That process belongs to you, not anyone else."
"He really was like me," Andrew whispered with a small smile. "Back in Harran, I joined the basketball club in secret, without Mom knowing—driven by passion, by the love for the process. Maybe... that's all gone now."
'I never joined the basketball club in middle school. I just trained and played with my brother, always behind Mom's back. Then, without caring about her decisions, I chose Harran High School on my own. I joined the club there—no matter the scolding or punishment waiting for me.'
'But not long after... problems began to appear, one after another...'
Andrew lay back, staring at the dim ceiling light.
'I'm so tired...'
•••
[Class 3-5]
07:12 a.m.
In a clean classroom lit by morning sunlight streaming through the windows, students sat neatly in their seats.
Ririn glanced briefly toward the back. 'He didn't come today?' she wondered.
Without her realising it, someone was watching her—a figure sitting at a table near the window facing the corridor. Red eyes, black hair, pale as the moon at night.
Moments later, the whole class stirred as their teacher entered.
Granna Ren—their sociology teacher and homeroom adviser. With silver-framed glasses, white hair, and eyes to match, she carried a beauty that felt cold.
"Good afternoon, students," she greeted flatly.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," they replied in unison, Ririn included.
Ms. Granna began writing on the board with chalk:
What Is Family?
"Today we'll study something simple," she said. "What is family?"
One student with glasses—Randy Veis, the class vice president—raised his hand. "Family is a group in society consisting of a father, mother, and children."
"Insufficient," said Ms. Granna, adjusting her silver frames. "Your answer is too basic and rigid—too bound to the textbook."
"Anyone else?"
The class fell silent. The question, seemingly simple, suddenly felt heavy. Ririn, whose mind usually brimmed with basketball strategies, found herself unsettled. The word family echoed in her mind—blending with the memory of Andrew's weary eyes.
"Family is where we're supposed to be ourselves without fear of being judged," came a soft yet clear voice from near the window. All eyes turned. It was Maya, the quiet girl who rarely spoke. "But... sometimes it's also where we get hurt the most."
.....