The house smelled of ginger and broth when Estelle came home that night.
She set her bag down, rolled her shoulders, and slipped off her shoes. The day had been long—rounds, paperwork, and the weight of seeing Red again still clinging to her like humidity.
She almost didn't notice Rosette at the dining table until her sister spoke.
"You saw him again today."
Estelle froze mid-step. "Who told you that?"
Rosette smiled faintly, stirring the soup in front of her. "You didn't have to tell me. You're quiet in a different way when he's near."
Estelle sighed and sank into the chair across from her. "He came to the hospital again. Foundation work, supposedly."
"He came to the therapy session," Rosette said simply.
Estelle looked up sharply. "He what?"
Rosette nodded. "During music therapy. He didn't say much. He just… listened. There's nothing wrong with that. You said it yourself—it's for the foundation."
Estelle felt her chest tighten. "Don't get smart with me, young lady."
"He had no right," Estelle continued. "You shouldn't have—"
"There's nothing wrong with him watching," Rosette interrupted softly. "Besides, I wanted him there. I wanted him to know that music doesn't erase the hurt; it simply reminds the soul it can still feel something beautiful."
The answer hit Estelle harder than anger ever could. "Rosette, after everything—"
"He's still Red," her sister said. "And I'm not that child anymore. I don't know what he did to make you and Kuya hate him so much. You can keep blaming him if you want, but I can't spend my life hating the sound of a name."
Estelle's hands trembled slightly. "You think forgiveness is that simple?"
"No," Rosette said, turning her face toward her. "But I think love is."
The words hung in the air—soft, but unyielding.
Estelle looked away, the ache in her throat spreading down to her chest. Love.
She had spent ten years trying to unlearn it, to make it a wound that no longer bled. But her sister's calm certainty made the stitches pull again.
"James can't know," she said finally. "You know how he'd react."
Rosette said nothing. She never had understood the depth of James and Estelle's anger toward Dranred—and maybe, Estelle thought, she was better off that way.
Estelle pushed the bowl toward her. "Eat. You need your strength."
Rosette smiled and began to eat. The moment felt fragile—like glass warmed by a small flame.
Estelle stood and stepped out onto the balcony. The rain had stopped, but the air still carried its scent—fresh, electric, alive. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the faint echo of a ball striking leather, the wind parting as it left the pitcher's hand. A rhythm steady and patient, like breath remembered.
She closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, he was still there—the boy who once spoke to her about games she never understood, who promised her the world before it fell apart.
Her hands tightened around the railing.
"Don't come back," she whispered, though part of her knew he already had.
Inside, Rosette's voice began to hum the tune from therapy—soft, forgiving, the sound of something lost finding its way home again.
Estelle's heart ached to the rhythm of it, breaking in quiet time with the song.
The stadium lights had long gone dark, yet Dranred couldn't sleep. The city outside his condo pulsed with neon and noise, but inside, the air felt heavy, motionless. The championship trophy stood on the table where he had left it, its golden curve catching the faint glow from the window. He should have felt proud. Instead, the sight made his chest tighten.
He poured himself a glass of water and leaned on the counter. Every muscle in his body still remembered the game—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the sound of his name echoing through the coliseum. And then Rosette's voice, soft and steady, cutting through it all: "Pain doesn't leave, Red. It just learns to live quietly."
He closed his eyes. She had looked peaceful when she said it, but the words had carved straight through him. He wanted to believe that he could be forgiven, that he could build something clean out of everything that had gone wrong. Yet guilt clung to him like a second skin.
The phone buzzed on the counter. A message from Cal.
Bro, you good? Coach wants a media shoot tomorrow. Don't vanish again.
He typed back: I'm fine. Then deleted it before sending.
His reflection in the window looked like a stranger—older, wearier, the lines around his mouth carved by victories that never felt like wins. He remembered the look in Estelle's eyes at the hospital: distance, composure, the kind of control that only comes from surviving something unbearable. And then Rosette—still smiling, still believing. He didn't deserve that kind of grace.
He walked to his gym bag and unzipped it. The old baseball mitt lay inside, worn smooth from years of being carried around like a relic. He turned it over in his palm, reading the faded ink.
He whispered to the empty room, "What do I do now, Rosie?"
Outside, thunder rolled far away. He thought of the hospital's music hall, of her gentle voice, and of the children who clapped for her like she was the one saving them. Maybe she was.
Dranred grabbed his jacket and keys. The night still held the scent of rain as he stepped into the hallway. He didn't know what he planned to say or how he'd explain ten years of silence, but he knew he couldn't stay still any longer. Some debts couldn't be paid from a distance.
He drove until the roads grew quieter, headlights sweeping over puddles like brief flashes of memory. By the time he stopped outside the hospital gates, dawn had begun to turn the horizon grey.
He sat there for a long moment, hands gripping the wheel, heart hammering.
Maybe he wouldn't see her today. Maybe it was enough just to be close, to prove to himself that he wasn't running anymore.
Still, he whispered, "One step at a time."
And for the first time in years, it felt almost like a prayer.