"James?" Rosette and Estelle both froze when they saw their brother struggling to walk near the locker room. They had thought his legs were fully healed — the doctor said so, and he hadn't used crutches in weeks.
But now, during halftime, they could see the strain on his face and the way he leaned heavily on one leg.
"James," Estelle called, rushing over. "Are you okay? Is your leg hurting again?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly, trying to stand straight. But Rosette noticed the tension in his stance — the way one knee slightly buckled under his weight.
"You don't have to lie to us," Estelle said gently. "We can see it's not fine. Is it the old injury again? Are you forcing yourself just to play?"
James smiled faintly. "It doesn't matter. This is my only chance. After ten years, I finally feel alive on the court again. If this is the last game I'll ever play, then I want to give everything I have."
"We understand," Estelle began, but Rosette cut her off.
"Are you doing this to prove something to Dranred?" she asked suddenly, her voice steady but soft.
Estelle turned to her, surprised. "Rosette—"
"He spent ten years playing for you," Rosette continued, looking directly at James. "He dedicated everything just to live your dream. And now that you're facing each other... are you pushing yourself because you can't stand to lose to him?"
James fell silent. Then, with a small, tired smile, he said, "Maybe."
She was right — part of him was driven by pride, by that shared dream that once bound and divided them. He couldn't let Dranred — the boy who had lived his dream for so long — surpass him on the court he loved most.
"I'm fine, really," James said again, trying to reassure them. "Don't look at me like that." He reached out and pinched Rosette's nose, making her frown in protest.
"You're so stubborn," Estelle sighed.
"Just this once," James replied with a grin. "Let me be."
"Then play without regrets," Rosette said softly. "But if it gets too much, don't force it. Your dreams don't end if you stop playing basketball. You'd make a great coach — your strategies are brilliant."
James chuckled. "You really know how to sweet talk, don't you?"
As the siblings shared a small smile, Dranred — standing a few meters away — happened to overhear their conversation. He hadn't meant to listen, but Rosette's final words reached him clearly.
Her voice was calm, sincere.
"I'll believe in you."
A small smile tugged at Dranred's lips. Her words only strengthened his resolve.
The lights in the stadium dimmed as the halftime break began. The roar of the crowd softened to a curious murmur when the announcer's voice echoed across the court:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the children from the Masterson Foundation, together with Miss Rosette Christopher."
A warm round of applause filled the air. From one side of the court, a small group of children stepped forward, each carrying their instruments — violins, a cello, and a guitar. And at the center, wearing a simple white dress, was Rosette. She took her place at the grand piano that had been rolled to mid-court.
Dranred, who was sitting at the Phoenix bench, lifted his head when he heard her name. James, on the Falcon side, also turned toward the stage, confusion flickering in his eyes.
Then the first notes began.
The melody was soft — fragile at first — then slowly, it began to bloom. A sound both haunting and beautiful filled the air. It was a song that carried traces of innocence, a faint echo of laughter from years long gone.
And then, recognition struck them both.
It was that song — the one Rosette had composed when they were children. The song she had played the day before everything changed. Before that tragic accident, before the grief, before the friendship that once bound their families was torn apart.
Dranred's fingers tightened around the towel still pressed to his healing wound. James froze where he sat, the ache in his leg momentarily forgotten.
As Rosette played, her eyes remained half-closed, lost in the melody. The children's instruments joined hers in perfect harmony — the cello's deep hum blending with the violin's soaring cry. It was a song about hope, about healing, about reaching for dreams that once seemed too far away.
For James, every note brought back the sound of bouncing basketballs on the old neighborhood court, his laughter mixing with Dranred's as they promised each other to become the best. He remembered the nights they dreamed of championships — and how that dream shattered the moment tragedy struck.
For Dranred, the music struck deeper. It reminded him of Rosette sitting by the piano, her small hands moving gracefully across the keys, while he and James listened from the doorway, pretending not to be impressed. He remembered how her smile could light up the entire room — and how, without realizing it, he had always looked for that light in every game he played.
Now, as she played that same song, he finally understood the warmth that had been growing quietly in his chest since she came back into his life.
It wasn't just gratitude. It wasn't just the love of a sister or a friend.
He had crossed that line long ago. The melody swelled — rising like a promise.
James felt his eyes sting, the weight of resentment melting into something softer. For the first time in years, he wasn't playing to outdo Dranred. He was playing to honor the dream they once shared. And Dranred, sitting at the edge of the bench, lifted his gaze toward Rosette. In that moment, surrounded by thousands of cheering fans, the noise faded into silence. There was only her — and the music that tied all their broken pieces together. When the final note faded, the crowd erupted into applause. The children smiled shyly and bowed. Rosette stood and gave a small nod of thanks, her gaze sweeping briefly across the court — and for a single heartbeat, her eyes met Dranred's.
He smiled. And for the first time that night, both he and James felt something they hadn't felt in years — peace.