The selection results were not announced loudly.
There was no call to the teachers' room, no long list posted in the hallway. Just a single brown envelope waiting at the school office, my name written on it in slightly faded blue ink.
I took it with steady hands too steady.
In my previous life, moments like this always made me nervous. My hands would shake, my thoughts would race ahead to failure before anything was decided. This time, I felt something different.
Not confidence.
Acceptance.
I had already taken a step. Whatever the result was no longer something I could control.
The first stage was a simple written test.
Language. Reading comprehension. Basic logic.
Not difficult.
Not easy.
Some questions felt familiar. Others made me pause longer than I expected. There were words I recognized by sound but wasn't fully sure of the meaning. Sentences I understood in context but couldn't confidently rephrase.
I worked slowly. I didn't rush.
This wasn't about being perfect.
It was about staying until the end.
The second stage was quieter.
A short interview. Two examiners. One table. One chair.
"Why did you apply?" one of them asked.
The same question.
The same answer.
I took a breath. "Because I want to leave the place where I grew up," I said honestly, "and come back with a broader understanding."
They didn't smile.
They didn't write much.
"Do you think you're ready?" the other asked.
I thought for a moment.
"Not completely," I answered. "But I want to learn how to prepare myself."
That was all.
The days after the selection passed more slowly than usual.
I returned to my routine school, the workshop, the morning radio. But there was a small space inside me now, like a room that hadn't been filled yet.
My father noticed.
He didn't ask.
He didn't stop me.
But his gaze lingered longer than before on my back as I worked.
One afternoon, he asked me to come with him to the city to buy spare parts.
The trip was short. The roads were crowded. Horns overlapped in restless layers.
Inside the car, he drove without speaking for a long time.
"You know," he said suddenly, his eyes still on the road, "if you leave… this house will be quieter."
I swallowed.
"I know."
"I'm not stopping you," he added.
The words sounded like permission
and like a farewell held back.
"When I was young," he continued softly, "I stood at that point too."
I turned toward him, but he didn't go on.
The traffic light turned green. The car moved again.
"And I chose to stay," he said at last. "Not because I was afraid… but because I wanted to protect something."
I didn't know how to answer.
That night, I sat at my desk without opening a book.
For the first time, I understood something that made my chest feel heavy.
This decision wasn't mine alone.
If I passed, I would leave.
If I failed, I would stay.
Either way, something would change.
And for the first time, I understood what the real test was.
Not the written exam.
Not the interview.
But whether I could accept whatever result came
without returning to the safe, narrow life I had already lived once.