The modest, average-looking house stood quietly at the edge of the lane, its faded paint carrying a warmth that spoke of old stories. Aria followed close behind her nanny, clutching her bag tighter than usual. She was nervous, but her nanny's presence gave her a sense of fragile safety.
At the door stood Sandra, a middle-aged woman nearly the same age as her nanny. The moment her eyes landed on them, her face lit up with surprise and joy.
"Is it really you?" Sandra gasped, her voice trembling. She opened her arms and rushed forward, pulling Aria's nanny into a heartfelt embrace. "After all these years… I can't believe it. My best friend, right in front of me again."
Her nanny's eyes softened, and for the first time in a long while, she looked shy. "Sandra… it's been too long."
Sandra pulled back slightly, her eyes glistening as she studied her friend. Then, curiosity flashed across her face. "Wait… I didn't know you were married. You never told me."
Her nanny lowered her gaze, fumbling with her fingers. A faint blush crept up her cheeks. "That… I'll explain later," she whispered.
Sandra's gaze shifted to Aria, who stood silently beside them. With a gentle smile, she asked the question that tightened the air around them.
"Is she… your daughter?"
For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Aria turned her eyes toward her nanny, and her nanny looked back at her. In that single glance—full of unspoken memories, secrets, and an ache neither of them could put into words—they shared something deeper than answers.
Sandra caught that look. Her smile softened with quiet understanding. "I see," she said simply, choosing not to pry. "Come in. Both of you."
Inside, the house welcomed them with the smell of freshly brewed tea. Sandra set out cups, her chatter light as she filled the silence with stories of the neighborhood, old days, and fragments of life Aria had never known. The nanny joined in, her face glowing in ways Aria rarely saw.
But for Aria, the talk soon blurred into background noise. She sat politely at first, sipping her tea, but as Sandra and her nanny wandered deeper into memories, she began to feel invisible—an outsider in a world stitched together by their past.
Restless, Aria let her eyes wander. The house was unique, filled with little oddities: shelves of old trinkets, faded photographs in wooden frames, and handmade crafts that carried years of history.
Then, in the quiet corner of the living room, she noticed her.
An old grandmother, sitting still in a worn armchair, her eyes half-closed but sharp, as though watching everything even in silence. Something about her presence drew Aria in. She set her cup down carefully and rose, stepping slowly toward the corner.
The room seemed to quiet around her as she approached, her curiosity pulling her forward…
Aria rose from her seat, drawn to the quiet figure in the corner. Her steps were soft, but her movement did not go unnoticed.
"Aria," her nanny called gently, glancing in the same direction. "That's Sandra's mother… she isn't keeping well these days."
Sandra sighed, her voice carrying both worry and impatience. "She used to run a little café years ago—Cafe Corner, that was its name. It was her pride, her whole world. But now…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "She can barely move around. The café is falling apart. I'm not interested in running it, and I've been trying to convince her to sell it before everything rots away. But she refuses. She clings to it like it's still alive."
Her nanny placed a hand on Sandra's arm, as if calming her. But Sandra's frustration was clear. "We fight about it almost every day. She says those walls still carry memories, but I only see decay."
The words floated across the room, reaching Aria's ears. Something stirred inside her—a mix of sympathy and curiosity. Slowly, she stepped forward until she stood before the old grandmother.
The woman lifted her gaze, and the lines of age deepened as her face broke into a soft smile. Her hand trembled slightly as Aria bent down, but when Aria clasped it gently, the warmth of the touch lingered.
"Such a sweet girl," the grandmother whispered, her voice weak but steady. Her cloudy eyes glimmered as she studied Aria's face. "And those eyes… so blue, so bright. Like the morning sky."
Aria felt her cheeks flush at the unexpected compliment. Something about the way the grandmother spoke—soft, unfiltered, sincere—settled warmly in her heart. She knelt at her side, unable to pull away from that gentle gaze.
As Sandra and the nanny continued their conversation in the background, the grandmother leaned slightly toward Aria, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I used to make sweets for my husband," she said, reaching to a small tin box at the side table. With shaky hands, she opened it and offered Aria little pieces of homemade sweets wrapped in faded parchment.
Aria accepted them gratefully, biting into one. The flavor was simple yet rich, the kind of taste that carried love more than skill. She smiled, and the grandmother's eyes softened further.
"What about your café?" Aria asked quietly, her voice filled with a kind of moral curiosity.
The grandmother's expression brightened as though she had been waiting for someone to ask. "It's still Cafe Corner," she said proudly, her fingers tightening around Aria's hand. "That place has my life in it. Every brick, every table has a memory. My husband and I built it together. I can't… I won't let it go."
Aria's breath caught. The name Cafe Corner tugged in her mind. she rememberd the cafe .
Next day ___.
The next morning, KHSS was buzzing like a disturbed hive. Students crowded the courtyard, chattering, shouting, arguing as they tried to find their groups. The seven batch leaders stood at scattered points, each one shouting names, waving hands, and trying to herd their students into order.
"Batch 2, move to the left wing! Don't stand in the way of Batch 4!" Zorvath's voice cut through the chaos, low but commanding. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, catching even the slightest hesitation. Students moved when he spoke; his presence carried a weight that didn't need explanation.
"Batch 3, line up properly. Lolan, keep them tight." He barely raised his voice, but it was enough. People listened. They always did.
Aria slipped into the courtyard, her gaze sweeping over the scene. It was messier than she expected—energy spilling everywhere, the air thick with both excitement and nervousness. For a moment, she simply watched Zorvath. The way he moved—calm, collected, issuing orders like pieces of a puzzle falling into place—wasn't loud, but it was absolute.
She drew in a steadying breath and walked straight toward him.
"Zorvath."
He turned, brow arching, already irritated by the interruption.
Aria stood her ground, her voice steady.
"Come with me. Rooftop."
For a moment, Zorvath's eyes narrowed, his irritation flickering into faint curiosity. She never spoke to him like that—not in front of everyone. He didn't answer, just gave a short, sharp nod.
Turning back to the courtyard, he called out, his tone brisk and final.
"Batch leaders—hold your positions. Keep the students in line."
The leaders straightened instantly, snapping to their duties. Order rippled through the chaos like a tightened rope.
Only then did Zorvath step away from the center, his strides unhurried but deliberate, following Aria without a word. The courtyard noise dulled behind them, replaced by the heavy silence of something unsaid hanging between them.
Aria stands at the rooftop edge, staring at GHSS like she's trying to etch the place into her bones. The air tastes like rain and something electric—too loud for thinking. The door opens behind her and Zorvath is there before she can turn. He doesn't say anything. He just reaches out, grabs her wrist, and drags her a few steps away from the view.
"What is this?" His voice is blunt, low—more irritation than question.
Aria hesitates, fingers curling around the rail. "I… I don't think the Quiz idea is enough to fix our money problem," she says, words stumbling out. "So I'm thinking of something else. A small—like, a ... An actual cafe, proper inheritance-type thing."
Zorvath snorts, the sound sharp in the open air. "That's exactly what we did in Room Zero," he says. "You shut one thing down and then start another that smells exactly the same. You want to restart this?"
"No." Her answer comes too fast. "Room Zero wasn't that. That—" she swallows, voice hardening, "—that was drug business. Not study. Not talent. Drugs."
He flinches, but only the tiniest bit. "I didn't allow that," he snaps. "I didn't run that. I didn't want that."
"You didn't stop it," Aria shoots back. "Being leader doesn't mean standing pretty and letting people rot. You let it happen—because it was easy to keep them calm, because it paid. Don't act like you had no hand in it."
Zorvath's jaw tightens. "Easy? You think any of this was easy? You think leaders only take the applause? We made choices—hard choices—so this place could survive. You think I enjoy policing idiots and breaking up fights?"
"You were choosing profits over futures," Aria fires. "That's on you. You chose silence. I chose to make noise."
His eyes flash, not with anger so much as a weary, dangerous kind of tired. "And you think locking Room Zero fixes that? You pissed off everyone and expect them to clap? You think disciplining them is the same as leading them?"
"It's better than feeding them poison," she says. "They don't need another hole to fall into."
They go back and forth—words quick, heated, two minutes that feel longer: accusations about responsibility, about what leadership actually costs, about whether KHSS is a place to hide failures or a place to fix them. Zorvath argues that control is survival; Aria argues that survival without soul is surrender. The wind picks up, carrying small scraps of paper from the courtyard below like birds.
Finally Zorvath exhales, a short sound that might be conceding or might be a plan. "Fine," he says. "Tell me about the café. Show me what you mean—actually show me it, not just talk."
Relief, real and bright, lights Aria's face. "Okay. Come with me this evening—I'll show you everything."
He looks at her for a long second, then, almost offhand: "You still have my card, right?"
For a beat she freezes—she had almost forgotten.
"How much did you spend on it?" he asks, voice flat.
Zorvath watches her, unreadable, then gives a curt nod. Without another word he turns and walks off the rooftop, leaving Aria staring after him in the thinning light.