Dranred shut the door and leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed. The smell of sweat, resin, and cold night air clung to him. For a moment, he just sat there, the muffled cheers of the arena echoing faintly in the distance — reminders of a victory that wasn't his.
He glanced at the passenger seat. The mitt and baseball rested there, soft under the dim glow of the parking lot lights. They looked almost out of place beside his Phoenix duffel — like relics from a different lifetime.
With a sigh, he started the engine. The low rumble filled the silence, but the quiet between his breaths was louder.
As he drove out of the lot, memories flickered like snapshots behind his eyes —
A boy standing in a dusty field, his hands too small for the glove but eager to catch every throw.
His father's proud smile when he hit his first clean pitch.
And later, the cold silence between them after James's parents' accident — the day Dranred traded the bat for a basketball.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Why did I even start playing basketball?
Was it guilt? Obligation? The need to prove that he could make something good out of the tragedy?
He remembered Charlie's words: Maybe your body's telling you what your heart already knows.
"Yeah," he muttered, staring at the empty road ahead. "But what if my heart's just… lost?"
The traffic lights changed from green to red. He stopped, his reflection staring back at him in the windshield — tired eyes, lips pressed in quiet defeat.
The mitt slipped off the seat during a turn and fell to the floor. He reached down and picked it up, fingers tracing the worn leather. It was heavier than he remembered. Warmer, too — like it still carried the echo of his childhood summers.
A bitter smile touched his lips. "You really think this can fix me, huh, Tito Charlie?"
The light turned green. He drove on, the city lights blurring past. Somewhere between the arena and home, something in his chest shifted — not yet hope, but not despair either. Just a small pulse of something alive.
When he finally parked, he didn't get out immediately. He sat in silence, thumb brushing the stitches on the baseball.
"I'll go," he whispered, almost to himself.
Not because he believed it would change anything — but because, for the first time in a long while, he wanted to remember what it felt like to play for himself.
Dranred went straight to his room the moment he got home. He collapsed onto his bed, too tired even to take off his shoes. The ceiling spun faintly above him, but when he closed his eyes, the game came rushing back — every mistake, every missed shot, every whisper of disappointment from the crowd.
Then came Charlie's words, echoing in his mind: "A superstar afraid to face his past."
He frowned in the dark. Afraid? Of what?
Was it James? The guilt he'd been carrying for years? Or maybe it was something deeper — the fear that no matter how hard he played, he'd always be that boy who ran away from what happened.
His phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand.
The sound cut through the quiet, startling him upright.
He reached for it and froze when he saw the name on the screen: Rosette.
For a long moment, he just stared at it.
His thumb hovered above the answer button, but his hand wouldn't move.
What was he supposed to say? That he was fine? That losing to her brother felt like losing a part of himself? He had already disappointed her once tonight — on the court, in front of everyone.
The phone kept ringing.
He let it.
When the call finally ended, the room was silent again — heavier than before.
Rosette sat on her bed, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.
"Come on, pick up…" she whispered, biting her lip.
The line kept ringing. No answer.
She tried again — once, twice — still nothing.
Her stomach twisted. Was he ignoring her? Was he angry because she hadn't told him about James?
She could still see the look on Dranred's face after the game — the quiet hurt, the way he couldn't even meet her eyes.
"Rosette? What are you doing?"
She flinched as Estelle suddenly entered the room. In a panic, Rosette tried to hide her phone behind her back, but Estelle had already seen it.
"What's that?" Estelle asked, walking closer.
"It's nothing," Rosette said too quickly.
"Oh really?" Estelle grabbed her wrist before she could move away. The phone slipped from Rosette's hand, and the screen lit up — Dranred's name still on the call list.
Estelle froze, then her eyes widened. "Rosette… why are you calling him?"
Before Rosette could answer, a voice came from the doorway.
"What's going on here?"
James stepped into the room, his expression hard.
Estelle held up the phone. "Why don't you ask her?" she said sharply.
James crossed the room in two strides and took the phone from her. His jaw tightened when he saw the name on the screen.
"Dranred?" he said, his tone cutting through the air.
Rosette looked down, unable to meet his eyes.
"Since when have you been talking to him behind my back?" James demanded. His voice rose, but it wasn't just anger — there was something else beneath it, something like betrayal.
"James, please—"
"Have you been telling him about me? About my return to basketball?" he snapped. "Is that why he knew how to play against me? Is he using you as his spy?"
"Stop it!" Rosette cried, standing up. "It wasn't like that—"
But James's glare silenced her before she could explain.
James exhaled sharply — almost a scoff. "I can't believe this," he said, voice trembling with fury. "My own sister. The one person I thought I could trust. So this is it? You and Dranred — plotting behind my back? Is that why you were so eager to watch the game live? Were you planning to sabotage me?"
"That's not true!" Rosette's voice broke as tears welled in her eyes. "It's not like that, James! I never told Dranred about your comeback. I would never betray you."
James glared at her. "Then why are you acting like this? Did he give you this phone too?"
"Yes!" she burst out, clutching her chest. "And what's wrong with that? James, I'm not a prisoner in this house! I may be blind, but I'm not helpless. Can't I make my own choices? Can't I have friends?"
His jaw tightened. "So you're saying Dranred is the only one who gives you freedom? That we're the ones keeping you locked away?"
"No, that's not what I meant!" Rosette cried. "Why can't you ever listen? You only hear yourself, James. You've been in pain for so long, but you refuse to let anyone in. Look at what happened between you and Dranred — you never even tried to hear his side. You hate him for reasons only you understand!"
James's expression hardened, his voice lowering to a bitter edge. "Do you really think I hate him without reason? Have you forgotten the pain he and his grandfather caused our family? You lost your sight because of them, Rosette. Don't you dare forget that."
"That's not true—"
"He's using you!" James shouted, cutting her off. "You just can't see it!"
Before Rosette could respond, he lifted her phone — the one still showing Dranred's name — and with one violent motion, snapped it in half. The sound of plastic cracking filled the room.
"James!" Estelle gasped, stepping forward.
James turned to them, his voice cold. "That's the last time I'll say this — don't ever meet with him again."
He threw the broken phone onto the bed and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.
For a moment, the room was silent except for Rosette's soft sobs. Her trembling hands searched for the pieces of her broken phone.
"I'm sorry, Rosette," Estelle whispered, guilt washing over her. She reached out, but Rosette turned away, curling on the bed with the shattered phone pressed to her chest.
She wasn't crying because the phone was broken — but because her brother was. Because no matter how much she wanted to hate him for it, she could still hear the pain behind his anger.
The sound of the slammed door still echoed faintly in the hall when silence finally settled over the room. Estelle stood frozen, torn between chasing after her brother and comforting her sister.
But then, she heard it — a quiet strum.
Rosette had reached for the guitar that rested near her bed, her trembling fingers finding the strings by memory. The first note was soft, hesitant, like a sigh — then another followed, and another, until the room filled with a melody so fragile it seemed ready to break apart with her.
Outside, the rain began to fall. Slow at first — gentle taps against the windowpane — then growing steadier, a rhythm that seemed to follow her music.
Estelle sat silently by the door, her heart twisting with every chord Rosette played. The song had no lyrics, only sorrow — each pluck of the strings carrying words she could not say. Apologies. Pain. The ache of a heart caught between loyalty and love.
Tears streamed down Rosette's cheeks, yet she didn't stop playing. She tilted her face toward the faint sound of the storm, her tears mingling with the rain's reflection against the glass.
It was a haunting melody — one that spoke of loss and longing, of the brother she couldn't reach and the friend she couldn't save. Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper carried by the storm.
"Why does it have to hurt this much?"
Estelle pressed a hand to her mouth, holding back a sob. To her, that song was the saddest music Rosette had ever played — not because of the notes, but because of the silence that followed each one.
Outside, thunder rolled across the night sky, and the rain poured harder, as if the heavens themselves couldn't bear her pain.
The strings finally stilled under Rosette's trembling hand. She bowed her head, clutching the guitar close to her chest.
And in that moment, Estelle realized something: the storm outside wasn't the only one raging tonight.