"That's great news, Kuya! Right, Rosette?" Estelle said cheerfully as they ate dinner together.
James had just told them he'd been hired as an assistant coach for a professional basketball team. His talent had been noticed after his high school team—an unknown name—won their district championship under his guidance.
"So that means… you'll be coaching against Dranred's team?" Rosette asked, smiling.
The table fell silent. Neither James nor Estelle answered.
"Can I come to one of your games?" Rosette added after a moment. "I mean, to listen, not to watch." She laughed softly at her own joke.
"There'll be too many people, it might be hard for you," Estelle said gently.
"I'll be fine. Please, James. I promise I'll behave. I just want to experience it once."
Estelle and James exchanged glances. Because of her blindness, Rosette rarely left the house. She had no close friends, no social life outside her siblings. Her world was small — the walls of their home and their voices.
"I don't have work this Sunday," Estelle said quietly. "I can go with her."
"Really?" Rosette's smile lit up her face. James and Estelle couldn't help but smile, too, just seeing her that happy.
"Then it's settled," James said. "Consider it your birthday gift this year."
Rosette beamed. She was turning twenty that weekend — the same day Dranred's team was set to play. She didn't say it aloud, but she already knew it would be the best birthday gift she'd ever had.
Later that evening, Estelle found James in the living room, watching clips of Dranred's games. His team would face Dranred's in the opening match of the season — and James's record against him was dismal.
"Are you sure you'll be okay seeing him again?" Estelle asked.
"I can't avoid him forever," James said. "And it's not like I did anything wrong."
"He was here the other day," Estelle said quietly. "He saw Rosette."
James froze. "What was he doing here?"
"He wanted to talk. About what happened ten years ago."
James's jaw tightened. The pencil in his hand snapped in two.
"The nerve of that man," he hissed. "After everything his grandfather did — he has the guts to show his face now? What, to rub his success in my face? To remind me of the dream he stole?"
Estelle hesitated. "Rosette still doesn't know, James. Don't you think she has the right to—"
"No," he cut her off. "She's been through enough. We'll make sure they never meet again. I don't want him anywhere near this family."
Estelle said nothing. She'd heard that tone before — final, unyielding.
She just turned her gaze to the blank TV screen, her reflection faintly visible in the dark glass, wondering when the past would finally let them go.
Dranred sat in the hospital café long after his meeting with the foundation director had ended.
The air smelled of burnt coffee and disinfectant—a scent he'd come to associate with penance. He stirred the lukewarm drink in front of him until the foam collapsed into the dark liquid.
A file folder lay open on the table, its pages filled with sponsorship papers he had already signed. At the top of the list, one name stopped him cold:
Rosette Christopher – Music Therapy Participant.
His thumb brushed over the printed letters, slowly, reverently—the way she used to trace the seams of that baseball he'd given her years ago. Of all the ways fate could have crossed their paths again, this one felt both cruel and merciful.
He didn't notice the nurse until she spoke beside him.
"Mr. Masterson? Miss Rosette is in the therapy hall," she said politely, then added with a small smile, "Perhaps you'd like to listen?"
Dranred blinked and looked up. His throat tightened. Should he go? What could he possibly say to her after all this time? Would she even recognize his voice? It had been ten long years since they'd last spoken—ten years filled with silence, regret, and memories he couldn't shake.
The nurse's tone softened. "She's one of the children's favorites here. Her sessions are always beautiful. Since you're one of the charity's primary sponsors, it might be nice for you to meet her."
He hesitated for a moment, then stood. "Alright. Lead the way."
They walked through a long corridor lined with murals—painted forests, suns, and constellations that glowed faintly under the white hospital lights. The air was hushed, punctuated only by the distant laughter of children and the faint strum of a guitar.
When they reached the therapy hall, the door was half-open. Dranred stopped, his hand resting on the frame, and peered inside.
Rosette sat on a stool in the center of the room, surrounded by children. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her smile was soft, patient, filled with the kind of warmth that could quiet any room. A guitar rested easily in her lap, her fingers moving across the strings with effortless grace—each chord flowing into the next like a heartbeat.
The melody was simple, almost childlike. Yet there was something haunting about it—familiar in a way that made his chest tighten. He knew that rhythm. It was the same tune she used to hum when they were young, the one that had echoed in his head even during the loudest nights of his career.
When the song ended, the children clapped and cheered. Rosette laughed—a sound so pure it cut through the noise in his mind. She thanked them gently, then began to collect the small instruments scattered around the floor.
Dranred took a slow breath. His pulse pounded in his ears. Then, before he could stop himself, he stepped forward.
"Rosette."
She turned her head slightly toward the sound of his voice. A faint smile curved her lips.
"Red?"
The single word froze him in place.
He hadn't heard her say his name in years. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, but he hadn't expected the quiet certainty in her voice—the way it reached through the years and found him instantly.
"You… recognize me?" he managed, almost afraid to believe it.
Rosette tilted her head, her expression softening. "You think I'd forget that voice?"
He swallowed hard, unable to speak.
She smiled faintly and set the guitar aside. "It's been a long time, Red."
He stood there, rooted to the spot, wondering how she could still see him—when she no longer could.
"Just because I'm blind doesn't mean my other senses are weak," Rosette teased with a small smile.
"I didn't mean—" he started, but she interrupted gently.
"Of course, I know your voice. I've watched your games—well, listened to them—and even the replays," she said. "I've memorized your voice."
He swallowed hard. "Memorized, huh?"
"Yes," she said softly. "And I remember everything. Especially the good parts."
He took a slow step closer. "I wanted to see you sooner, but—"
"I know," she said, cutting him off again. "I just don't understand why you and my brother still can't make peace. You used to patch things up so quickly, even after the smallest fights."
He hesitated, unsure what to do with his hands. It wasn't a small fight, he thought. And it wasn't something time could easily mend.
But he couldn't tell her that. He didn't want to burden her with the truth—especially when it was clear James had never told her what really happened. Her calmness told him that much.
Rosette tilted her head, sensing his silence. "Pain doesn't really leave, Red," she said quietly. "It just learns to live quietly."
He smiled faintly. "It's been a long time since I've heard you call me Red. Somehow, it sounds better than the music you played earlier."
"Really?" she said with a soft laugh.
He wanted to tell her how sorry he was—how every victory since that night had felt like stealing light that wasn't his—but her serenity stopped him. She didn't need his confession. Maybe she already knew.
Instead, he said, "If there's anything the foundation can do to support your program—anything at all—you only have to ask."
She smiled faintly. "You already gave what you could once, Red. The rest is up to us now."
From the doorway, a nurse called her name. Rosette stood, brushing her fingers lightly across the guitar strings—like closing the last note of a song.
"Goodbye, Red," she said.
"I'll see you soon," he replied before he could stop himself.
Her smile deepened just enough to make him wonder—
whether she believed him.