That afternoon, the sky hung heavy with gray clouds.
Rain hadn't started yet, but Rey knew… it was coming.
Just like memories—
They never arrive all at once, but always begin with something small, something barely noticeable.
Just like that afternoon.
Rey sat in the small mentoring room, opening a folder filled with the participants' writings.
He read them one by one, calmly.
But when he got to the fourth document—titled:
> "Not Your Fault, But It Still Hurt"
…his heart seemed to stop for a moment.
---
The first paragraph opened with a vivid image of an old bus terminal in a small town Rey knew too well:
Arjosari Terminal.
The last place he had hugged Aurel before leaving for the city years ago.
> "He said he'd come back before the next rainy season, but the rain arrived first… without him."
That line… felt far too familiar.
Rey swallowed hard. His hands grew cold.
Then, page by page, he read:
About a high school girl who fell in love with a poor boy she had to hide from her family.
About silent arguments in front of her alley.
About promises scribbled on the back of gas receipts.
About a loss that didn't come suddenly—but grew slowly in the quiet.
And finally, about a letter that was never sent.
---
Rey stopped reading.
His eyes stared blankly out the window.
The rain had begun—soft and quiet, like a breath held too long.
Was this just coincidence?
Was this teenage Aurel rewriting Rey and the Aurel's story from a different lens?
Or… was this girl somehow connected to his past in a way he hadn't yet understood?
---
The next day, Rey asked Aurel to join him for a private counseling session.
He didn't bring up her writing right away—just started the conversation gently.
> "You like writing from personal experience?"
Aurel nodded. "Sometimes. But also from stories my mom told me…"
Rey held his breath. "Your mom likes to write too?"
Aurel gave a small smile. "No. But she once told me she had a weird love story. Said she almost married someone her family didn't approve of."
Rey's chest tightened.
Aurel continued casually, as if her words weren't time bombs:
> "His name was Reyhan… or Rey, I forget. She showed me an old photo once, but I was just a kid then."
---
Rey couldn't speak.
His heart clenched. His throat was dry.
So… this Aurel…
Was Aurel's daughter.
The child of the woman he had once loved with everything he had.
The woman he had left in the name of becoming "worthy."
The woman who now, silently, passed down her pain through stories to her daughter.
---
Teenage Aurel noticed the change in his expression.
She frowned. "Coach R, are you okay?"
Rey closed his eyes briefly.
> "Aurel… can I ask you something?"
She nodded.
> "If you could speak to the man who once left your mother… what would you say?"
The girl was quiet for a long moment before she answered:
> "I'd say…
'Thank you for making my mom love someone with all her heart.'
> 'And… I'm sorry. Because after you left,
my mom was never really whole again.'"
---
Rey lowered his head. His chest ached.
When Aurel left the room, Rey held back the tears that had been building behind his eyes.
And he realized one thing:
> "Pain doesn't disappear.
It can be inherited.
And if it isn't written, or forgiven, it becomes the quietest legacy—
the kind that destroys the generations that follow."
---
That night, Rey opened his laptop.
He opened the file of his new book—and deleted everything he had written so far.
Then, with trembling fingers, he started from the beginning:
> "To the daughter of the woman I once hurt…"
> "I'm sorry I didn't know my leaving…
also made you grow up in a story that never truly ended."