Aylin Scott finally managed to escape from the cold, emotionless house. As she walked from her aunt's home to the prestigious Dublin High School, everything seemed more vibrant than usual. The sky felt exceptionally blue, the grass greener, and even the scorching September sun seemed gentle. It was all like a dream, delightful yet surreal. Her dreams, which had been buried under her grandmother's harsh words and the cruelty of reality, were suddenly revived, and Aylin could hardly believe it was all real.

A young female teacher stepped into the classroom. She appeared to be around twenty-three or twenty-four years old, fair-skinned and attractive, with bangs framing her face and long hair cascading down to her waist. Her eyes were bright and expressive, and beneath her delicate nose was a gentle smile that seemed to hold an unspoken charm. Unable to resist, Aylin smiled at her. In a classroom filled with youthful faces, her smile was hardly noticeable, and nobody seemed to register her quiet joy. It had been a long time since she had smiled like that.

The teacher wrote "Marta King" on the blackboard and then turned to face the students with a bright smile, both excited and slightly nervous. "From today onward, I'll be your homeroom teacher. You can call me Ms. King or, if you like, just Marta. I just graduated from college, and I'm excited to start this new chapter with all of you. I hope we can work well together and tackle the challenges ahead as a team," she said warmly, her movements lively like those of a big kid. Aylin found herself captivated not just by Ms. King's appearance but by the vibrant energy she exuded.

"Now, let's take attendance and get to know each other." Ms. King stepped down from the podium with the attendance sheet in hand. "Jack Harper—"

"Present!" a voice responded.

"Abigail Wilson?"

"Here!"

...

"Aylin Scott?"

The classroom was silent. Ms. King scanned the room and repeated, "Aylin Scott? Is there no Aylin Scott in this class?"

The uncomfortable silence was overwhelming. Aylin felt as if she were sitting on pins and needles. Gathering her courage, she stood and stammered, "Sorry, that's me! My name is Aylin Scott!" As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized she had drawn the attention of the entire class. Her heart raced, and she couldn't remember what she had just said.

"Oh, really? I'm sorry, there was a mistake on the attendance sheet," Ms. King apologized with a smile and took a moment to observe the girl standing before her. She noticed Aylin's strikingly beautiful appearance—her long, dark hair framed her face, tied back simply, and her serene yet melancholic eyes. Despite her natural beauty, Aylin carried an air of aloofness and detachment. She wore a simple beige linen blouse, understated yet elegant. Ms. King touched her shoulder gently and said, "Please take a seat, Aylin."

Aylin sat back down, her heart still pounding rapidly, while Ms. King moved on to call other names. Aylin realized that the emotional turmoil existed only in her mind; it hadn't disturbed anyone else. Yet her heart continued to race for the rest of the morning.

"Hey, Aylin, let's be pals!" A voice suddenly spoke up beside her, startling Aylin. She looked over to see a girl with a charming smile, short hair, and bright, lively eyes. Her grin revealed dimples and a mischievous glint in her eyes, much like a playful kitten. Aylin hadn't even noticed she had a seatmate.

"I'm Milena," the girl extended her hand towards Aylin.

Aylin hesitated for a moment but then shyly shook her hand. "Hi," she replied, feeling slightly awkward. But soon she smiled more naturally, realizing that this new environment was a fresh, promising start—a vibrant teacher, a cheerful new friend. Everything seemed so invigorating, and Aylin was determined to adapt to it all.

In the following class, Mr. Garcia, the teacher, was intense and full of energy, his lectures lively and packed with historical anecdotes. They made the lessons exciting and engaging. However, Aylin still preferred the warmth and approachability of someone like Ms. King.

Suddenly, Mr. Garcia approached Aylin's desk and tapped his fingers pointedly on it. "This student, can you share your thoughts on digital literature?"

Caught off guard, Aylin stood up, her mind having wandered a moment ago. Perhaps Mr. Garcia had noticed her distraction and called on her to refocus. But she was surprised to be singled out on the first day. Regardless, she knew she couldn't afford to falter now. Although her experience with the internet was limited, she decided to speak broadly. "Digital literature impacts traditional literary authority because the digital age is open, with literature involving the masses. In this respect, digital literature surpasses traditional literature," she began, aware she was speaking generally due to her limited understanding.

Mr. Garcia, an apparent traditionalist who favored classical texts, seemed unconvinced. She caught a hint of dissatisfaction on his face through his thick glasses.

"You truly believe digital literature surpasses traditional literature?" His underlying question seemed to challenge her preference for traditional literature.

Noticing his skepticism, Aylin elaborated, "I was merely comparing their reach. Digital literature has a low entry barrier, facing challenges in maintaining quality. Yet the accessibility it provides allows anyone to publish freely without editorial gatekeeping or needing a renowned pen name, which can lead to a mix of quality. Overall, while digital literature might be seen as fast food, traditional literature remains like a fine dining experience. As life accelerates, more people choose the fast food option. It's not hard to see why."

Mr. Garcia's expression softened, and Aylin's confidence began to return.

"What's your name?" Mr. Garcia asked.

"Aylin Scott."

He nodded, recognizing that despite her earlier distraction, her analysis wasn't entirely off base. "What books do you enjoy reading?"

"Books by Steinbeck, Austen, and Hemingway," Aylin listed, her voice brimming with enthusiasm.

"And digital novels?" Mr. Garcia prodded.

"Um..." Aylin faltered, realizing she had little familiarity with digital novels. It seemed this seasoned teacher was more current than she was.

Mr. Garcia smiled, "You might enjoy works like 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' or 'Eleanor & Park.' They could broaden your perspective."

Aylin lowered her head in quiet reflection.

Mr. Garcia gave her a reassuring pat. "Impressive, keep up the good work!"

This unexpected acknowledgment from Mr. Garcia should have been a point of pride, but for her dorm mates that evening, it was hardly noteworthy. Instead, they were far more enthralled by Mr. Garcia's rumored private life with his much younger wife, nearly forty years his junior.

"Hey, I heard that once men hit a certain age, they can't keep up. But women in their thirties or forties have insatiable energy, right? How do they manage?"

"You think Mr. Garcia is having an affair?"

"Enough! Can we not meddle in others' affairs? Let's sleep!"

"Oh, by the way, Aylin, you made quite the impression today!" Milena acknowledged her for the first time.

Aylin smiled in the dark, about to respond when Milena mischievously added, "Just steer clear of that old lecherous teacher, okay?" she giggled.

Feeling as if she had swallowed something bitter, Aylin decided not to respond, pretending to fall asleep instead. Fortunately, Milena turned over and stayed quiet.

As her dorm mates began to snore, Aylin lay restless, unable to sleep. Milena's teasing had transported her back to a time she loathed, where she stood at the center of the world, exposed to all kinds of unwanted attention. Friendly, sympathetic, malicious, mocking, casual, or bored—it all centered on her, and she resented it. She was not naturally paranoid or self-important, but she had always cared too much about others' opinions. She despised being the focal point, resented the attention from everyone, including mentors, classmates, family, and strangers. This heightened sensitivity was a long-term effect of her depressive phase, a condition she called "heart prison." It was the root of her issue—a problem that refused to heal completely and would flare up with the slightest provocation. Deep down, Aylin longed for a door that would lead her to happiness, but she knew this college acceptance letter was not that door.

Unable to sleep, she was up early, wandering through the city streets as they stirred under the cold moonlight.

Aylin saw her grandmother's body around eight or nine in the morning the next day. The body was not taken to the funeral home but instead kept at her uncle's house. To prevent decomposition, the heating was turned off, and ice packs were arranged around Kayleigh Gardner's bed so Raiden, Aylin, and Milan could see her one last time.

Her face was pale, cold, and devoid of color. Aylin collapsed onto the bed beside her grandmother. Just days ago, her grandmother had been smiling and giving her advice, and now she lay there like this. Aylin couldn't cry. It wasn't that she wasn't hurting; it was that the pain was overwhelming, beyond anything she could have imagined.

Despite rarely visiting from London in the past decade, Aylin had spent nearly twenty years in close proximity to her grandmother. Kayleigh's unreasonable nature, her domineering ways, and her sharp tongue had given Aylin an early taste of life's harshness, teaching her how to navigate human complexities from a young age. They had shared a house, harboring mutual resentment that they used to get through the days. That resentment had persisted for so long that even when they could have lived harmoniously, Aylin kept her distance. But now, life had led them to this final goodbye, leaving much regret behind.

The mixture of love and hatred was a peculiar cocktail, both icy and fiery.

Emma Gibson gently helped her up. "Aylin, you need to accept it. Your grandmother passed peacefully."

Aylin nodded and turned to her brother, Salem. "Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me when Grandma got sick? At least I could have spent some time with her."

Salem remained silent, looking down. Dustin, Aylin's husband, stepped in to separate the siblings. "Aylin, they didn't want to worry you," he said, leading her back to the living room where Milan was sitting, lost in her thoughts. "Aunt Milena, we only found out last night. By then, they were already boarding the train, so we couldn't join them."

Milan sat silently, tears streaming down her face. Since Kayleigh Gardner had taken her last breath, Milan hadn't eaten or spoken a word. Her bond with her mother was deeper than any typical mother-daughter relationship. Milan had been old enough to understand the struggles when her father passed away. She knew her mother's hardships and loneliness, and she remembered how her mother had begged for mercy to feed their family, working alongside men in the fields, forgetting she was a woman.

Emma Gibson, holding a toddler, glanced at Milan and signaled to Dustin to follow her into a bedroom, Salem joining them.

"Dad and Uncle Raiden will be here by noon. Once they've seen her, we should call the funeral home to arrange the cremation," Emma suggested.

"But Mom..." Salem hesitated as he looked outside.

"We can't let her grieve indefinitely. We can't leave the body at home without heating. We might endanger the living," Emma's firmness seemed to echo Milan's resilience.

Aylin wiped her nose and nodded. "We'll follow Emma's lead. And we'll hold the funeral at the family home in the countryside. I'll head to the village to find Uncle Tadeo and the council to arrange everything. We can’t just wait for Dad and Uncle Salem to get here." Salem exchanged a look with Dustin, feeling a bit awkward. "Dustin, we know you just got married..."

Dustin playfully punched him on the shoulder, "No need for formalities."

Aylin suddenly remembered she now had a husband. She shot him a grateful look, noticing his tired eyes and feeling a pang of sympathy. "Salem, Dustin has been up all night preparing for the wedding. I’m worried he’s worn out. Let’s rest at your place for a bit."

Emma quickly took a key out of her pocket and handed it to Aylin. "Absolutely! You both need some rest."

"I have to get back to the village. There's so much to do."

"I'll go with you," Dustin insisted.

Given his insistence, Aylin relented. "Alright, we'll go to the village first, talk to Uncle Tadeo and Aunt Martha, and arrange everything. When Dad gets here, Salem, you can take Grandma for cremation."

On the day of Kayleigh Gardner's funeral, many people gathered from the village. Aside from the elderly, a few newly married women and young children, Aylin barely recognized any of them. To the villagers, the Gardner family was legendary—a grandmother once infamous for her shouting, a son notorious for a stint in prison, and a daughter-in-law who had worked in a nightclub. Yet, who could have imagined their granddaughter would attend an elite university and marry into an esteemed family?

Despite the whispers and gossip, one must never look down on others.

Raiden Gardner was weeping openly, a vulnerability he'd never shown before. Yes, he was grieving, but there was also a sense of losing a part of himself. His mother's overwhelming love had led to his idleness and previous family estrangement. In his youth, he had blamed her for not providing more for him. Now, with age came clarity about the greatness and selflessness of maternal love. But now, the opportunity to express that realization was gone.

Having been released from prison only six months ago, Raiden hadn't had time to prove himself

Living at her aunt's house felt like she was living a fairy-tale life for Aylin Scott. She had her own room with a full-length mirror wardrobe, a charming bedside lamp, and her cousin Salem chauffeured her to and from school. Her aunt always whipped up a variety of dinners. Everything seemed perfect, with no material want and a seemingly fulfilling life, yet Aylin couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease. The comfort and stability felt too good to be true, leaving her feeling more like a temporary guest than a family member.

Aylin often chastised herself for feeling insecure, but she couldn't help it. She couldn’t fully enjoy this comfortable lifestyle guilt-free, nor could she stop feeling thankful to her aunt and uncle. But this overwhelming gratitude only made her feel more alienated within the household.

She was overly sensitive. Every day after school, when she said, "I’m going home!" it felt awkward because while others proudly proclaimed, "My mom and dad are waiting for me," she was acutely aware that the three other members of the household could ask her to leave at any time. Aylin often pondered seemingly absurd questions: Do I truly have a home? Do I have a family? Am I loved by my family? Can one be truly happy without belonging?

She desperately wanted to rid herself of this unwarranted loneliness, to temporarily forget who she was, ignoring her longing for familial affection. But people can be selfish; the more they lack, the more they crave.

"Hey, what are you daydreaming about?" Milena Gibson tapped on Aylin's desk to snap her out of her thoughts.

Aylin looked up and smiled, "Oh...not much."

"Class is over!"

"Oh, really?" Aylin said, appearing absent-minded.

"Not going home yet? Hey, why don't you come to my place? My folks are out, just me and Aunt Lynn—it's going to be great!" Milena’s words painted a familiar scene for Aylin from their previous chats.

Aylin shook her head, "Nah, I think not today."

"Oh, come on! It'll be fun at my place!" Milena insisted, playfully tugging at Aylin's arm.

"Well...alright!" Aylin got up, lazily gathering her books.

Being used to solitude, Aylin found it hard to resist such persistent invitations. Truth be told, she liked Milena as a friend, despite their stark differences. Milena was joyful and self-assured, while Aylin was gloomy and insecure. Yet now, Milena had opened the door to friendship for her, and Aylin had no reason to turn down the invitation. Even if she couldn’t bask in Milena’s happiness, she hoped that Milena’s laughter could at least lift her spirits.

"Do your parents ever argue?" Aylin asked suddenly as they walked.

"All the time," Milena’s casual response surprised Aylin.

"Really? You don’t seem bothered by it..."

"Eh, what's there to be bothered about? They’re just being silly! Petty fights every day, bigger ones every few days, then they're back to being lovey-dovey!"

Aylin came to realize—what they called "arguing" was entirely different from her concept. She realized she lacked not just harmony and stability but even those playful, dissonant notes that were part of a happy family, something she knew nothing about.

The wind by the river was cool and soothing, and the view of the sunrise over the London Eye was breathtaking, like the ripples in Aylin’s heart. The cutting words Anya had hurled at her the night before faded to insignificance. Why should they matter? Girls liked to tease; why laugh when teasing others but not take it when it’s your turn? She reminded herself not to be petty.

Aylin stretched in the breeze, then turned to observe the old Bank of England building behind her. She loved these ancient European architectures far more than the modern skyscrapers across the river; their timeless charm was irresistible. Just like Professor Hughes' preference for classic literature—the more rooted something is, the more captivating it becomes. Aylin smiled to herself.

But in that brief moment, she saw a silhouette in the morning light—a dreamlike silhouette. With the backlighting, she couldn’t discern his features or age, only that his figure was tall and slender. He held a palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, facing her direction.

Was he smiling at her? Why? Aylin frowned, sure that there were no familiar faces around here—she didn’t know any artists. She quickly turned and walked in the opposite direction.

"Hey, you!"

Was he calling her? Aylin hesitated, unsure whether to turn around.

"I'm a student at King's College too," said the silhouette, adding another clue.

Aylin turned to look at him again; now under the shadow of a skyscraper, she could see him clearly—a tall, handsome young man smiling warmly at her. "Come over, see if it looks like you."

Aylin hesitated, pointing at herself, "Are you talking to me?"

The young man smiled again, "Yeah, is there anyone else here?"

Aylin glanced at the embankment. Besides the lone river, indeed, there was no one else. She walked towards him, hardly daring to believe her eyes. On the canvas, she was rendered so lifelike, the morning sun over the Thames coloring her in rosy hues, the wind naturally tousling her hair.

Aylin was momentarily speechless, her face flushed red. Was it surprise or embarrassment?

He quietly observed her; he was undeniably handsome, yet his attractiveness couldn't hide the slight melancholy in his gaze. "Do you like it? You can have it if you do!"

Aylin shook her head vigorously, "No, thank you!" How could she accept something from a stranger, especially such a personal gift?

He seemed to understand her hesitation, smiling brightly, "No worries, painting it brought me a lot of joy. Besides, if you hadn't shown up here so punctually every day, this painting wouldn't exist!"

So Aylin didn’t refuse further, and as she accepted the painting, she noticed his signature, "Eren Murray?"

Eren nodded while packing his art supplies, "Got class in the morning? You should head back if you do!"

Aylin, surprised, blinked at him. He spoke as though he knew her well.

Eren scratched his head sheepishly, "Haha, I know you're a freshman in the English Department. I'm in the Art School. I happened to see you coming out of the Humanities Building yesterday... Oh, I forgot to introduce myself—I’m Eren Murray, a freshman in the Art School."

Aylin smiled shyly.

They chatted effortlessly on the bus ride, despite knowing little about each other. It was odd, but the boy was engaging, speaking with charm and eloquence. As they approached the university, Aylin felt a bit of reluctance. Would she see him again tomorrow?

When her dorm mates saw the painting in Aylin's hands, they swarmed around her.

"Wow! It looks just like you!"

"Eren Murray?! Aylin, spill it, have you been meeting this guy every morning?"

"Well, isn’t it obvious? How else could he paint you so well? Hey, Aylin, did you model for him nude or something?"

At that, Aylin blushed furiously, "Oh, stop it, Mia! We just met!"

"Oh really, just met and you already got a heartfelt gift! The guy seems pretty keen on you," Donna teased from the side.

Just then, the dorm door slammed shut—it was Anya, making a hasty exit.

"What's her issue?" Aylin asked, bewildered.

"Who knows, she's a mystery!" Mia replied dismissively.

The girls had started noticing Anya's peculiar behavior. Her competitive nature wasn’t the problem—sometimes she was overly enthusiastic, other times she was cold and distant, making her unpredictable.

Anya walked to the dorm hallway, crouching in a secluded corner to cry. She liked Eren, from the first day she laid eyes on him, but she never got the chance to talk to him with her parents around. During orientation, she would sneak glances at him, learning that he was Eren Murray from the Art School.

Naturally shy, especially being a top student, Anya never dared to make the first move. She would silently watch, always near him, saying nothing, doing nothing, hoping he would notice her and make the first move.

Her dream shattered; Aylin had beat her to it! She felt a mix of shock and disappointment, experiencing both envy and bitterness.

That was Aylin Scott—prettier, more accomplished. Even if Anya was bold enough to greet Eren first, it couldn’t overshadow Aylin's brilliance. Even old Professor Hughes was charmed by her!

After crying her heart out, Anya returned to the dorm with red eyes, the other girls still bombarding Aylin with questions. In the calm of university life, any ripple was magnified. Seeing Anya's red eyes, they all fell silent.

"What happened?" Aylin asked with concern, unable to connect her new acquaintance with Anya's state.

Anya nonchalantly shook her head, "Nothing, really. I got some dust in my eye out in the hallway, rubbed it a bit too hard."

Everyone could tell Anya was lying, but no one was inclined to call her out. Only Aylin watched her closely, "Are you okay?"

"It's fine! I'm alright!" Anya forced a smile. "Oh, by the way, Aylin, I heard you got yourself a boyfriend—congrats!" Her smile was clearly forced.

Aylin shook her head quickly, "No, really, it was just a chance meeting during morning practice; we barely spoke. You know, artists—they just paint whoever they see, it's nothing personal!"

Oh, they hadn’t started anything; maybe there was still hope! Anya’s expression immediately softened, hiding her relief by steering the conversation, "Oh, and when I passed by the bulletin board yesterday, I saw a call for essays—Aylin, your writing is fantastic, you should give it a try!"

"Really? If I have time, I’ll give it a shot." Aylin gathered her books for class, happy Anya had been so thoughtful. She naturally looped her arm with Anya's, "Let's go to Professor Chen's class. If we're late, it'll be brutal! You guys, hurry up too!"

On the way to class, they were quiet, each holding their own secrets.

The essay contest quickly shifted Aylin's focus away from thoughts of Eren. After all, she and the boy had nothing substantial between them, merely friendly banter. But it reminded her of Francis, who had once sparked special feelings over a similar writing piece. However, thinking of Francis now didn’t hurt like it used to.

When the past has turned to dust, what remains are the memories. And what of a new romance, a new hope? Would there be stories with the handsome artist boy? Without emotional surges, would life on campus become dull?

Aylin was startled by her own thoughts. Was she longing for love? She shouldn’t; how could she forget her past heartbreaks so quickly? She reminded herself.

For now, she’d set thoughts of romance aside and cherish the friendships around her instead. Would she find friendship here as she had with Milena? She yearned for a friend like Milena, someone so genuine, passionate, and open-hearted. Often, she compared her hometown friend Anya with Milena, wondering if Anya could become her next close confidante. Anya was passionate, loved to laugh, and often walked arm-in-arm with her on campus. But the key similarity was that Anya, too, could hold back tears and even laughter. Though she couldn’t understand why Anya was so off today, she recognized that same familiar bitterness.

Anya, like Aylin, was a proud girl. Indeed, pride—they both had it. But Aylin's pride was inherent, while Anya's was pressure from the outside world. With both being prideful, maybe they could become best friends!

Anya was diligent but not particularly bright. A simple poem would take her no less than thirty recitations to remember. Anya was relentless but deeply insecure, calling Professor Hughes a creep, yet she’d scour multiple bookstores just to find material to impress him in class.

Even though Anya was inconsistent, not as lively, nor as genuine as Milena, Aylin still considered her a friend. Both from the same town and both lacking vivid colors in their lives.

Life continues as the departed become a memory.

Though these truths are universal, accepting them can be difficult when they hit close to home. Such was the case with Raiden Gardner these days. He said little and ate even less. Every time he saw his mother's photograph, tears welled up. It wasn't that he couldn’t understand life and death; rather, he reflected on how hard his mother, Kayleigh Gardner, had lived. Her life was full of hardships, and even in passing, she faced struggles. Was this life’s burden or a debt from a previous existence?

Hanna was straightforward; one day she remarked to Salem, "Your mom used to nag because of menopause, now she's all mystical." Salem was upset, saying no daughter-in-law should mock her mother-in-law. Yet, he acknowledged his mother's grief had been excessive.

Salem discussed with Aylin and Dustin, considering a trip to lift his mother’s spirits.

Naturally, Aylin and Dustin agreed wholeheartedly.

When Kayleigh heard that her son and daughter-in-law were trying to send her away to London, she stomped her foot in anger, berating Salem, "What are you thinking, Salem? Your grandmother just passed, and you’re trying to ship me off to England. Do you find me annoying already? I’m not old and gray yet!"

Aylin Scott was ushered into an impressive villa by Milena Gibson. Although Aylin knew that Milena's family was affluent, she hadn't anticipated such an extraordinary level of wealth. In Aylin's mind, she felt like a fish out of water, wide-eyed and amazed at every sight. Mrs. Claire, the housekeeper, appeared to be in her forties, with a warm smile and an approachable demeanor. Seeing Milena bring a friend home, she promptly set out some fruit before heading out to run errands.

"What do your parents do? How are they so wealthy?" Aylin asked as she settled onto the plush sofa, which was so soft it almost threw her off balance.

Milena chuckled at Aylin's surprise, "My dad? He might not have the degrees your dad has, but he's got a knack for business. Years ago, he ventured into the hotel industry right here in town, and now, the Marriott Hotel? My dad was the founder!" Milena's pride was palpable as she spoke of her father, and Aylin couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy.

"Wow, the Marriott is your family's? That explains a lot!" Aylin exclaimed. Such a well-known hotel was familiar even to someone from a small town like her. "And your mom?"

"My mom? Well, she never really pursued an education. After high school, her focus was on keeping me in line, working out, and getting beauty treatments. She's probably less concerned with work than I am!"

Aylin chuckled softly. She suspected Milena was being modest on purpose. Her mother must be a cultured woman, Aylin inferred, noting a magnificent piano in the living room. Such a piece seemed more aligned with her mother's tastes than Milena's laid-back style. "That's a beautiful piano, is it your mom's?" Aylin asked, her appreciation for the instrument apparent.

"What! No, that was a gift from my dad's German friend, for me! My dad hired a bunch of piano teachers for me, but I scared them all off. Not that I didn't like them, I just didn't care for music. All those note symbols looked like hieroglyphics to me. It's more like a piece of furniture here!"

"I see. Actually, music is like a universal language, full of emotion. How about I play something for you?" Aylin looked at Milena eagerly.

"You can play the piano? Absolutely, I'd love to hear if you're better than my teachers!"

Without another word, Aylin sat down, her fingers gliding over the keys as if in contemplation, playing single, random notes. Then a melody started forming in her mind, and she followed it instinctively, note by note, slipping into an ethereal state. Her other hand joined in, and a stream of shimmering, harmonious notes flowed effortlessly from her fingers. She played seamlessly, the music whispering like the wind, rustling like leaves, flowing like a stream, and singing softly like falling rain. The emotions in the music were poignant and haunting, tugging at the heartstrings, immersing her in a quiet place like a pebble sinking slowly into the sea.

The tune was deeply melancholic, and Milena felt a wave of sadness wash over her.

"What's wrong?" Aylin noticed Milena's teary eyes and stopped playing.

"I don't know why, but your music makes me feel so emotional!"

Aylin smiled warmly, teasing, "Sorry, it's my favorite piece. My aunt taught it to me in just three lessons. It's a bit on the sad side, huh?"

Milena observed the girl, who always seemed lost in thought; she'd long suspected Aylin had a story. To describe a teenager as 'having a story' might sound odd, yet one look revealed Aylin's solitary demeanor, setting her apart.

"Aylin, do you consider me a friend?"

"Of course," Aylin replied.

"Then tell me about yourself. You hardly ever talk about your family."

Aylin had anticipated this. Being friends meant opening up, but it required courage and emotional readiness. She wondered how others might perceive her once she laid bare her hidden self. She sat quietly, her fingers lightly grazing the piano keys, head bowed.

"What's bothering you, Aylin? Is there nothing to say about your family?"

Aylin offered a faint smile, "It's just that my life is very different from yours."

Milena paused, noting Aylin's distant expression. "Aylin, we've known each other for quite a while now. I always felt like you were carrying some sort of secret, always lost in thought. Sometimes, I think you were born with this odd sense of loneliness, but it doesn't seem possible for someone to be born sad. Is something troubling you? Remember, we're best friends!"

The simple words "best friends" touched Aylin deeply. She tried to respond casually, "Milena, I don't have a home."

"No home?!" Milena was taken aback by Aylin's sudden revelation.

Aylin laughed bitterly, "Almost. My parents are divorced. I had wonderful memories, but they're distant now, out of reach. They loved each other—yes, I think they did—but my dad got too into gambling, playing bigger and bigger games until my mom left and abandoned us."

"That's tough..." Milena mused, unsure how to comfort her friend, whose sorrow seemed so distant from her own. "Is your dad okay now?"

"I... can't really say. He's been away for years. I hardly ever see him. I mostly live with my grandma, but she... she doesn't like me much, probably because she resents my mom. She sees me as just like her, bound to leave one day, so sometimes, she treats me poorly."

"Treats you badly?!" The word struck Milena with horror. She couldn't fathom what Aylin's grandmother had done to her friend, sending chills down her spine. "You must really hate her, right?"

Aylin smiled gently, "I used to hate her, especially when other kids were eating popsicles under ceiling fans, and she made me gather wheat in the blazing sun. I used to wish she'd just disappear. But as I grew older, I found I couldn't hate her anymore."

"Why not?"

"You're living the life of a princess," Aylin smiled wistfully, "you wouldn't understand. My grandpa died young, leaving my grandma widowed in her late twenties, raising my dad and aunt single-handedly. You can't imagine what it was like for a woman with two kids trying to make ends meet in the countryside. She begged, collected trash, faced unimaginable hardships, yet she managed to send my aunt to college. How could I hate such a woman?" Aylin's voice was unusually hoarse, and she sobbed quietly before continuing, "After some reflection, I realized my grandma's harshness stems from her resentment toward my mom's abandonment of her family. She never went to school and became a widow in her twenties, never contemplating remarriage. To her, divorce feels like sheer rebellion. Her life was fraught with misfortune, yet she lived with a clear conscience. Isn't that tragic?"

Milena looked at her friend, almost with admiration. How could a sixteen-year-old speak so calmly about such complex emotions?

"Your mother..."

Aylin quickly shook her head, "I don't know. After the divorce, I never saw her again. So, I prefer not to talk about her."

Milena fell silent, understanding that Aylin's mother was a forbidden topic, one that remained so because of its importance to her.

Motherly Love

Motherly love is like spring rain—it can saturate our hearts with a single careless downpour after a long drought. It's an unwavering breeze, always warming our chilly emotions. No matter where we go, we can never leave the expansive embrace of our mother's love.

Motherly love is selfless, sacred, and grand. It is meticulous and profound...

The next morning, Aylin felt someone gently pulling a piece of paper from beneath her arm as she woke with a jolt, surprised to see Isabella flipping through her manuscript.

"Wow, the genius is hard at work! Staying up late to write an essay? If you don’t win an award, I don’t know who will!" Isabella's dramatic expression was as exaggerated as a wife catching her husband in a lie. Since childhood, Isabella had always been the star of the class, and now in university, she found herself playing second fiddle to Aylin. It made her uncomfortable. Aylin's superior performance was one thing, but Isabella resented her lack of effort compared to her results. Admitting someone was better was hard enough, but admitting they were smarter was even harder.

Aylin blinked at Isabella, still processing what had happened and feeling the dull ache in her arm from being pinned down.

Isabella skimmed Aylin's manuscript, her envy barely concealed. Yet she couldn’t believe Aylin had written such sincere, moving words on her own. She must have copied them from somewhere! She knew this suspicion was unfair, but she clung to it because she couldn’t bear losing.

"Aylin, it's beautifully written. I didn’t even notice when you got up," said Zoey, Aylin’s bunkmate, peering over Isabella's shoulder at the manuscript. Zoey, a mysterious figure who rarely spoke or attended classes, was nocturnal by nature. She praised Aylin’s writing unusually.

"Just scribbling," Aylin smiled faintly.

Isabella placed Aylin's manuscript on the desk and handed her a copy of "Goodbye, Vivienne." "Here, Professor Hanks asked you to read it if you had time. I picked it up for you."

Aylin was touched, giving Isabella a grateful look. Then Isabella leaned in and whispered, "Inside, there's a piece I wrote. Could you take a look?"

Aylin understood Isabella didn’t want her to mention it aloud. Isabella's hypocrisy was irritating, but on the flip side, Aylin realized they were similar—both projecting strength while being fragile, pretending indifference while caring deeply. Understanding this, Aylin resolved to support her.

That day during her elective class, Aylin painstakingly revised Isabella’s piece. The so-called "prose poem" was not only structurally scattered but lacked substance. It seemed like a collection of ornate phrases. Aylin meticulously reconstructed it, rearranging the structure, a task so arduous it would have been easier to rewrite it entirely.

Aylin decided to call Kayleigh Myers. For the first time, she took the initiative to contact her mother—not out of disinterest, but out of fear of disturbing her. It was also prompted by the previous night's dream. They say mothers and daughters share a deep bond; maybe something was truly wrong on her mother’s end.

As she listened to the ringing, Aylin felt nervous, her palms damp with sweat.

"Hello," came her mother's slightly groggy voice on the line.

"Mom, it's Aylin..." She hesitated, unsure of how to continue. A simple hello felt hollow, expressing that she missed her seemed too sentimental.

"Aylin, is something wrong?" Now it was Kayleigh’s turn to sound anxious. This long-lost daughter had never taken the initiative to contact her. Although she claimed to have forgiven her, Kayleigh knew the grudge lingered in her daughter's heart, a reminder of her irresponsibility as a mother. Her sudden call must mean trouble.

"No, Mom, I'm fine. How are you?" Aylin didn’t want to mention last night’s dream, realizing it hadn’t been a bad omen, just a dream about her mom.

"I'm... I'm alright, just the usual," Kayleigh said with relief.

"Good, I'm glad. Are you busy? If so, I can hang up."

"Oh, okay. I’ll call you when I have time. Bye!"

After hanging up, Aylin felt a bit downhearted, feeling insignificant to her mother. Then again, maybe that wasn’t so important. She was growing up, creating her own life. She comforted herself with this thought.

In the consultation room of the maternal and child health hospital in Houston, Dr. Quinn placed the test results on the desk, her brow furrowed in silence as she considered how to break the news to Kayleigh.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Quinn. My daughter—I thought it was important," Kayleigh said, noticing the doctor's solemn expression, offering an apologetic smile.

Dr. Quinn shook her head, indicating it wasn’t an issue, but she still hadn’t spoken.

"What's wrong, doctor? Is something wrong with the baby?" Kayleigh felt a sudden pang of anxiety.

"You have a daughter?" Dr. Quinn sidestepped her direct question. As a physician, she hoped her patients would realize what they had when they faced loss, to minimize the pain.

"Yes, I have two daughters. Honestly, I didn’t expect to get pregnant at my age. My husband and I were quite surprised!" More than surprised—they were thrilled. She had always wanted a child with Jonah, not because Aylin wasn’t close or Roz wasn’t good. She simply wanted to solidify her family with something deeply connected, like a child. Women can be sentimental like that.

"Ms. Myers, I still advise against having this baby..."

"No, Dr. Quinn, I know. At my age, I'm a high-risk pregnancy. I'll be careful!"

"Please, Ms. Myers, let me finish," Dr. Quinn interrupted firmly, tapping the test result on the desk. "Our tests indicate you have breast cancer. It's early-stage, with no adverse symptoms now. We can perform surgery, and you'll recover. However, the medication during surgery will affect your pregnancy. We recommend terminating the pregnancy..."

Kayleigh's eyes instantly brimmed with tears. How cruelly fate had played her! She recalled Jonah's gentle kiss on her cheek today, daydreaming about whether they'd have a son or daughter, filling him with pride.

Jonah was a successful businessman, but that was trivial to Kayleigh. Even if he were as penniless as her ex-husband, Aiden, as long as they were together, they could make a life. Yet Jonah had lost much—his prior wife had been caught in the grip of addiction, tarn