The rain had stopped by late afternoon, leaving the streets slick and silver under a bruised sky. James made his way home from the auto shop, the familiar limp a rhythm that matched the hiss of tires on wet pavement. He had spent the day bent over engines, the smell of oil clinging to his hands, but work never dulled the ache that lived in his chest.
When he reached their house, the television was already on. Rosette sat on the couch, the faint glow brushing her pale face. She was listening to an interview—the deep, even voice unmistakable.
"…Masterson Foundation hopes to continue supporting rehabilitation programs across the country. It's about giving back what the game gave me," Red was saying.
James froze in the doorway.
He felt the same rush of anger he always did when that voice filled the room: a mixture of memory, betrayal, and something he refused to name.
"Turn it off, Rosette," he said.
She tilted her head toward him. "It's almost done, Kuya."
"I said off."
The edge in his tone made her flinch. She reached for the remote, fumbling, and the screen went dark. Silence filled the space between them.
James exhaled sharply and dropped onto the chair across from her. "You keep listening to him like he's some kind of saint."
"He's helping children like me," Rosette said quietly. "That's not a bad thing."
"He's helping his conscience," James snapped. "Don't mistake guilt for goodness."
Rosette's cane tapped the floor once—an old habit when she was thinking. "Ate saw him today," she said. "At the hospital."
He looked up. "She told you?"
"She didn't have to. I can always tell when something changes in her voice."
James clenched his jaw. "He has no right showing up there."
"He didn't hurt us, Kuya," Rosette said, almost pleading.
"Oh really? What do you know?" James shot back.
"Then don't tell me anything. You talk as if I'm not even part of this family. You hide everything from me — even your hatred for Red."
"So what, you're taking his side now? Who's your family, Rosette?"
"He was young back then. Whatever you think he did, I'm sure he regrets it. He was just a child."
"So were we," James said. His voice softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. "And look where that got us."
He pushed himself to his feet, pain flashing through his injured leg. "If he comes near this family again, I'll make sure he remembers what he took from us."
"Maybe he already does," Rosette murmured.
James didn't answer. He limped to the window, watching the smear of headlights on wet pavement. Somewhere outside, a basketball bounced — hollow and rhythmic, like a ghost of their past. It used to be a comfort. Now it was a wound that reopened with every echo.
He closed the curtains.
Even though the hospital refused to give him Estelle's address, Dranred wasn't about to give up. He hired a private investigator to find her.
Within a week, the investigator returned with a detailed report. Estelle was living in the city — and, most likely, so were her siblings. James, her brother, now worked as an assistant coach for one of Dranred's rival basketball teams. Before that, he had been a PE teacher at a local high school. He'd even tried to join the military and the police, but his leg injury had forced him to withdraw.
Because of his natural talent for the game, one of Dranred's rival coaches had hired him as an assistant.
When Dranred asked about Rosette, however, the investigator had nothing to offer. He'd followed Estelle home several times but never saw anyone there except James.
The report included an address. Dranred kept it to himself. He didn't tell Peter or his manager — he knew they'd insist on bringing reporters. For years, fans had wondered who the mysterious friend was, the one he owed everything to. But this wasn't for publicity. This was personal.
The next afternoon, Dranred drove to the address. The neighborhood was quiet — clean streets, trimmed hedges, an air of modest peace. He parked his car a short distance away, pulled a cap low over his head, and walked toward the small gate.
For a long moment, he stood there, uncertain. Then he pressed the doorbell.
A few seconds later, Estelle stepped out of the house. She was wearing casual clothes, her hair tied back, a hint of surprise on her face as she opened the gate.
"Can I help you?" she began, but her voice caught as she recognized him.
"You?" she breathed. "What are you doing here? How did you find this place?"
"I have my ways," Dranred said quietly.
Her expression hardened. "What do you want? Are you here to see what kind of life we have after what your grandfather did? Well, as you can see, we're fine. We have a home. We eat three times a day. If that's all you came for, you can leave."
She started to close the gate, but he caught it with one hand.
"Estelle," he said. "Let's talk."
"There's nothing to talk about. I told you before—I don't want anything to do with someone like you."
"Estelle, please. Let's talk, at least to clear up what happened between us," Dranred said quietly.
"I don't want to hear it. Just leave, before James comes home. I don't want another scene."
She tried to close the gate, but a soft voice called from behind her.
"Ate Estelle? Who's there?"
Both of them turned. Dranred froze. Rosette stood by the doorway, holding a white cane, her other hand feeling along the wall. Her steps were careful but confident.
It hit him like a blow. Ten years ago, the accident had taken her sight. The doctors had said there was hope — if only they could afford the surgery.
"It's nothing," Estelle said quickly, her voice tight. "Just someone asking for directions. Go back inside, okay? I'll be right there."
Rosette smiled faintly. "Alright. Don't stay out too long." She turned, feeling her way back toward the door.
"Was that Rosette?" Dranred asked, his throat tightening. "She's—"
"Blind?" Estelle snapped. "Yes. Because of your grandfather."
He flinched.
"If you came here to check on us, tell your grandfather we're fine," Estelle continued, her voice trembling with fury. "We have a house. We eat three times a day. We survived."
She slammed the gate shut, locked it, and walked away before he could say another word.
Dranred didn't follow. He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed gate, the echo of Rosette's cane still ringing in his ears.
The private investigator hadn't told him any of this. No one had.
Now, guilt pressed down on him like a weight he could never lift.
He wanted to make things right — but he no longer knew where to begin.