Dranred set the phone down and pressed his hands over his face. Of course, fate would draw him to her through that cause, as if the universe were forcing him to look back at what he had tried to bury.
The knock came again—softer this time. Coach Ibarra.
"Red? You ready for the board meeting?"
"Give me five minutes, Coach," he said, trying to steady his voice.
"All right. Don't keep the sponsors waiting." The older man's footsteps faded down the hall.
Red rose, walked to the mirror, and studied the man staring back. Twenty-eight, MVP, poster boy for every brand that could afford him. To the world, he looked untouchable. But he could still see traces of the boy who once stood helpless, A friend who was unable to do anything for the person he considered his family.
He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out the old baseball mit It had followed him through every move, every season. The inked signature—faded, his own handwriting—was still there.
"Rosette," he murmured. The name felt fragile in his mouth.
He turned the mit once, twice, then slipped it into his bag.
That night, the city was still buzzing with post-game euphoria. Every bar in the city had screens replaying his shot; every talk show host wanted a quote. Dranred ignored them all and drove aimlessly until the roads emptied and the noise faded.
At a red light, he opened his phone again, thumb hovering over the reply button. A single sentence formed in his head: I'll be there.
He hit send before he could change his mind.
The following week came too quickly. The hospital's conference hall smelled faintly of antiseptic and jasmine perfume from the floral arrangements. Doctors, athletes, and journalists mingled beneath banners that read Hope Beyond the Game.
Dranred arrived quietly, wearing a simple shirt and jacket, no entourage. He preferred it that way. The staff buzzed as they recognized him; a nurse whispered to another, "He's really here."
He signed a few autographs, posed for pictures, but his eyes were scanning the room for one person.
And then he saw her.
Estelle stood near the stage, clipboard in hand, hair pinned up neatly beneath the soft lights. Ten years had passed, but she looked almost the same—poised, graceful, eyes sharper now, older, as if life had trained her never to be surprised again.
When her gaze finally met his across the room, her expression didn't change. Not shocked. Not joy. Just the stillness of someone who had already rehearsed this moment and decided it meant nothing.
Dranred 's heart pounded anyway.
He took a step forward, unsure what he would say.
But Estelle turned away first, calling to a colleague.
It was like being struck and dismissed in a single breath.
The morning after the charity event, the rain came early.
It fell in soft, steady sheets over the narrow streets of the City, washing dust from the rooftops and turning the gutters into thin streams. Inside the small Christopher apartment, the world felt muted—like the rain itself had decided to muffle every sound.
Estelle moved quietly through the kitchen, a towel over her shoulders, coffee brewing on the stove. She had slept only a few hours, her mind replaying every moment from last night.
She had told herself she wouldn't react. She had promised herself that seeing Dranred again would mean nothing. Yet his voice still echoed somewhere in her chest—the low, careful tone he used when greeting the hospital staff, the way he had deliberately avoided her until the end, as if he was afraid to cause more harm.
"Estelle?"
James's voice came from the couch, groggy. He was already dressed for work, his cane leaning beside him. He limped slightly now; on damp mornings, the old injury burned.
"Coffee?" she asked.
He nodded, rubbing his temple. "Rosette's still asleep?"
"Mm-hmm. She stayed up late listening to the replay."
James let out a short breath—half laugh, half sigh. "Of course she did. He could shoot a ball through a hurricane and she'd still call it destiny."
"Don't start," Estelle warned softly, placing a cup in front of him.
"I'm not starting," he said, staring into the dark liquid. "I'm just wondering why the man who ruined our lives keeps showing up on every screen we own."
Estelle leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Because he's good at what he does."
"He's good at pretending."
"Maybe," she said quietly, "but that doesn't make him disappear."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of rain tapping on the window.
James looked up, studying her face. "You saw him yesterday."
She froze. "I saw a lot of people yesterday."
"But you saw him."
Her fingers tightened on the counter. "He was invited. I couldn't exactly throw him out of a hospital fundraiser."
"You could've tried," James said. "You always were better at walking away than I was."
Estelle turned away, her voice low. "Walking away didn't save us last time."
He didn't answer.
In the bedroom, a faint voice began humming a tune—soft, airy, almost like a lullaby. Rosette had woken. The melody drifted through the apartment, gentle enough to ease the tension in the air.
Estelle smiled faintly. "She's up."
James stared at the rain-streaked window. "Sometimes I think she forgave him just so one of us would."
Estelle didn't respond. The truth was too complicated to unpack over coffee.
Rosette liked the sound of rain. It filled the spaces that silence often left behind—soft, endless, and kind. The pattern of drops against the roof made her think of applause, distant and fading, like the echo of the crowd she had listened to on the radio the night before.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the same baseball resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the rough stitches, following the curve again and again until she could almost see it in her mind. She never needed eyes to remember it; touch was enough.
The tiny radio on her desk whispered updates from the morning news. Masterson Foundation donates to Saint Matthew Medical Center… basketball hero Dranred Masterson—
She turned the volume down. It wasn't the announcer's voice she needed; it was the memory of the boy who used to laugh when he missed a shot, who told her she could do anything if she listened hard enough.
The knock on her door came lightly. "Rosette? You awake?"
"Come in, Ate."
Estelle's footsteps crossed the floor. She always smelled faintly of hospital soap and rain. "Breakfast is ready," she said. "Don't be late; you have therapy today."
Rosette nodded, still holding the ball. "Was it raining when you were at work yesterday?"
"A little." Estelle's answer came too quickly.
"Did you see him?" Rosette asked, voice quiet but steady.
There was a pause long enough to hear the clock tick. "I did," Estelle said at last. "For a moment."
Rosette smiled faintly. "Was he kind?"
Estelle hesitated. "He was… careful."
"That sounds like him." Rosette stood, finding the cane leaning beside her desk. Her movements were sure; she counted the steps automatically. "You don't have to protect me, Ate. I know James doesn't like it when I talk about him, but I still pray for him every night."
Estelle sighed. "Prayers are one thing, Rosette. Memories are another."
"I think memories are prayers too," Rosette said. "Ones that never stop asking."
For a second, Estelle couldn't find an answer. She took her sister's hand instead. "Come on, breakfast is getting cold."
Rosette tilted her face toward the window. "Is it still raining?"
"Yes."
"Good," Rosette said softly. "Then maybe he's listening too."