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The bedroom walls were peeling, flakes of white paint drifting down like tired snow. A dim orange lamp glowed faintly in the corner, casting long shadows. The room was small, but it was clean, neat, as if someone had scrubbed away every trace of despair with sheer willpower.
At the old desk, Victor sat with an empty envelope. For the first time that day, his expression softened.
He dipped his pen into ink and began to write. His strokes were no longer the hurried, slanted handwriting of before. This time he wrote carefully, in neat block script, each character practiced and deliberate. It was as though he had been preparing for this moment all along.
On the envelope he began:
[My dearest Sophia, you are four years old this year. This is a letter written by your mother in heaven. She misses you deeply…]
The words flowed slowly, steady and tender.
[Do you know what you want to do in the future? You could be a researcher, a singer, a servant of the nation, or a brilliant businesswoman. You could be many things. But remember this: every success comes with its own foundation. Do not spend all your strength too soon.]
[Do not chase everything at once. Keep silence deep inside your heart. Be the one who watches patiently. The wind will stir up grains of sand—see clearly each grain's good and evil, then wait. When all the sand has fallen, you will be the one left standing as the true king.]
[I will write many more letters for you, teaching you many things. I know you love acting, so watch life carefully, observe, and learn to imitate.]
He continued on, pouring thought after thought into the letter, filling the envelope with lessons hidden as a mother's words.
Finally, coughing wracked his body. A streak of blood stained his lips. He wiped it away with his sleeve, face pale, and carefully folded the letter. On the back he signed:
[From your mother, who loves you the most.]
Now the screen split into four haunting images:
Sophia, just four years old, standing on the balcony, crying as she sang with a voice both wronged and confused.
Victor, pale and sick, sealing the envelope at his desk.
A crowd outside the slum, mocking him, calling him a fool.
And finally—the audience of today, staring at these images replayed before them.
The stadium erupted.
On stage, Sophia's eyes dimmed, as if the very light inside them had faltered. She whispered to herself, almost trembling:
"Why… why did you write that envelope when I was four? And all the ones after that?"
Her voice cracked.
"It couldn't have been you. You were only filling in for my mother. The important words came from her—I saw it! Sometimes she appeared to me, she handed me the letters with her own hands. I watched her write in front of me…"
But even as she spoke, her heart twisted.
A pain she couldn't name cut through her chest. It was as if she stood on the edge of discovering the most important truth of her life—but the mist refused to clear.
Still, one thing rang true.
Victor's warning was right.
If four-year-old Sophia had relied on just one song, she would have burned out and been cast aside by greedy companies. Only a true genius, only someone who transcended mediocrity, could survive the brutality of the entertainment industry.
But the memories came flooding back.
Why, she wondered, when her friends visited, had her father always sneered, calling them idiots, warning her that stupidity was contagious?
Why, when she wanted to practice singing, did he force her to study classical literature instead, scolding her whenever she couldn't answer his harsh questions?
Why, when she grew older, did he chase her for pocket money like a madman, exploding in anger when she forgot to give it?
Why, when she once endorsed a product that landed her in scandal, did he stand before official media and say coldly:
"If you want to arrest her, then arrest her. Sentence her directly!"
He had been so harsh, so hot-tempered, so unyielding. He never cared about her feelings.
And yet… she realized with horror…
Her own character had become exactly like his.
She was stubborn, unrelenting. She faced any opponent, no matter how powerful, with unshakable confidence. She dared to fight back against any corporate giant, fearless and bold.
She was Victor's daughter.
And she didn't understand him.
Among the audience, a few elderly men exchanged knowing glances. Their voices were low, filled with weight.
"There exists a kind of father," one murmured. "His love for his child is like a game of chess. At first glance, his moves look cruel, hypocritical, even insane. But every move is for the sake of the final victory."
And what was the final victory?
It was Sophia's unmatched brilliance, her rise to the top of the global stage, standing as an eternal light.
But who could understand such a father?
To the world, Victor remained a fool, a tyrant, a hypocrite. Even his letters were doubted—people believed perhaps the first was real, but the rest had nothing to do with him.
No one credited Victor with Sophia's rise.
Meanwhile, in his photography studio, Charles stopped crying. His employees stared at him in confusion as he straightened his back, his tears drying.
He fixed his gaze on the broadcast and muttered:
"I don't believe it. I don't believe you wrote those letters. I want to see for myself how you supposedly raised your daughter to rise. Her success has nothing to do with you."
Without another word, he grabbed his coat, hailed a taxi, and went straight to the stadium.
The program team recognized him instantly and invited him onto the stage.
This was the third time Charles and Sophia met in their lives.
The first was when Sophia was four years old, on the rooftop.
The second was when she was four years and three months old, glimpsed through the crack of a door.
The third was now, fifteen years later, under the bright lights of the show.
Charles looked at her—the little girl he once saw, now transformed into a dazzling woman whose very presence pressed down on him like a storm.
How could this radiant, fearless genius have come from a man like Victor?
"She is a genius," Charles said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Her rise has nothing to do with her father."
The audience erupted again.
"Yes! That must be it!"
"Then who wrote the letters? Surely not Victor!"
"Charles has confirmed it—Victor had no talent, no ability!"
"Exactly. What's the use of writing letters? You can't raise a child with just ink and paper!"
"Sophia was born a genius. Her success is her own, not her father's."
Their voices roared through the stadium, dismissing the pale figure of Victor once again.
But somewhere, quietly, in the shadows of memory, the truth was waiting.