The program hall of [Family Education] fell utterly silent.
On the giant screen, the replay showed a little girl—Sophia—kneeling at a lonely grave on the outskirts of the city. Her small hands clutched the tombstone, tears streaking her face. Beside her, a thin man, skeletal from illness, whispered softly:
"You must shine early… or find the one who shines."
The words echoed, imprinting themselves deep into the child's fragile heart.
The audience stirred uneasily. They weren't just watching a recording; they were staring into the tragedy of a man—Victor—who once had elegance and promise but was broken by bankruptcy, divorce, and disease, driven into the depths of a slum.
His brows and eyes still held a trace of heroism, but fatigue clouded them. Yet before his daughter, he spoke calmly, tenderly, with a voice that seemed to pierce straight to the soul.
It was a moment that left many hearts aching.
---
But on the stage, Sophia's voice cut through that tenderness like a blade.
"No!" she declared, her expression conflicted, her voice trembling with emotion.
"It wasn't you! Words like that can't change me! From you, I only remember being expelled from my friendships—you drove away every friend I ever had!
"You stripped me of my hobbies. You stole my innocence. That was you!"
Her tone hardened, sharp with pain.
"So yes, you spoke beautifully, like a scholar, like a rational man. But that wasn't my father. My father was the one who destroyed me, who robbed me of everything, and who turned me into his enemy. That is what I remember, and nothing can change it."
The stadium buzzed. Her words were harsh, but they carried weight. To Sophia, Victor was not a father, but a barrier she had to overcome.
---
The hostess, Nana, leaned into her microphone, excitement in her tone.
"The next scene will show the father and daughter becoming enemies. We are about to witness the birth of a pedantic father!"
Applause rang out across the stands. Many nodded.
They had heard Sophia repeat it multiple times: since the age of four, Victor had changed completely.
Maybe it was disease.
Maybe it was years of poverty.
Maybe it was the influence of the slum.
But the once-proud man, in her eyes, had become dark, selfish, arrogant, unloving.
Even Charles, the cameraman who had known them long ago, stood and added fuel to the fire.
"It's true. When Sophia was five, I visited that slum again. I saw Victor bullying several children. That day, I was ashamed. I thought, if Sophia kept growing up like this, her future was doomed."
His words hit the stadium like thunder.
An uproar followed. Some were bitterly disappointed. Others, who had held on to some respect for Victor—remembering he had once been a proud man who hadn't even filed for divorce—now watched that respect crumble.
---
Samuel, contestant number one, elegant at forty years old, stood and addressed the hall with confidence:
"Growing up in that environment, surrounded by selfish and corrupt people, while suffering illness himself—Victor would inevitably be defiled. He would lose his responsibility as a father."
The crowd broke into applause. His polished words captured the belief most already shared.
---
But the video didn't stop.
The screen shifted again.
Sophia—four years and eleven months old—stood at the doorway of her home during a school break. A few boys, seven or eight years old, knocked, smiling shyly.
"Come play with us," one said.
Sophia scratched her head. She recognized only one classmate. "But… I don't know you."
"Let's go to the zoo. We can see the tigers!" the boy grinned.
Before Sophia could answer, the door swung wide open.
Victor stormed out. His voice was sharp, merciless.
"Play with idiots, and you'll become an idiot too! Don't come here again. Idiocy spreads, and one day the police will catch you for it!"
The boys froze, wide-eyed. Then, terrified, they nodded and ran.
Victor turned to his daughter, his expression firm but calm.
"You don't need to play with idiots. They'll believe anything I say."
From that day on, no child ever came knocking again. Sophia's door opened only for homework, never for laughter.
---
The replay cut to Sophia glaring at Victor, her young voice shaking with rage.
"Why don't you let them play with me!"
She didn't call him father.
Victor only touched her head gently. "They're bad boys."
"It's not true!" she shouted back.
"You're nearly five," he reminded her, his eyes steady. "Do you still want to see your mother? Finish your homework. Start writing songs. When you perform in elementary school, your mother will reward you with an envelope."
His eyes, though filled with fatigue, shone with fierce love.
Sophia fell silent.
---
The footage shifted again.
Victor handed her a slip of paper. The handwriting was neat block script, the "mother's" script.
[Sophia, it is time to write a song.]
Attached was a drawing: moonlight piercing through drifting clouds, casting silver scales across the sea. In the image, a girl in a white dress walked toward the ocean's depths. Waves rose to block her path, the sea pushing against her every step, but still she pressed forward, into the darkness.
Sophia stared at it, lost in thought. What name should the song have?
"Ocean? Waves? The girl in white?" she murmured.
Victor's voice drifted casually from behind: "Why not call it 'Sea Trench'?"
Sophia frowned, shaking her head. Then, after a moment, inspiration lit her face.
"No… not trench. I'll call it Under the Sea."
She gripped the paper tightly.
---
The stadium gasped.
On the massive screen appeared the bold words:
Song Title: Under the Sea.
It was the very song Sophia had performed in first grade. A cappella, alone, her pure voice had brought an entire auditorium of school officials and city leaders to tears.
That song, sung at only five years old, swept across music charts, leaving audiences stunned that such a masterpiece had been written and performed by a child. From that moment, Sophia's path against the heavens began.
---
But murmurs broke out in the present.
"Wait… didn't Victor suggest the title?"
"Was that… guiding her?"
The hostess, Nana, frowned, sensing the shift. She spoke firmly:
"Don't be fooled. Just before that, Victor was shown bullying children, even driving them away violently. Charles himself confirmed he beat children in the slum. Such a man cannot create songs of such purity. 'Under the Sea' must have been Sophia's genius alone."
The audience nodded, swayed back.
"How could someone capable of cruelty also inspire such beauty?"
"Impossible. It was her, not him."
The stadium resettled into its belief: Sophia was self-made, a genius untouched by her father.
But still, in the corner of their hearts, a few wondered:
Was it truly coincidence?
Or had Victor been guiding her, step by step, in ways she never noticed?
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