In the morning, Kayan found Salar alone in his office.
He didn't knock. He pushed the door and walked in. Salar looked up, held his gaze, then returned to the book before him — as if he'd been expecting him.
"Sit."
Kayan sat. Then directly:
"Who was my father?"
A long silence. Salar closed the book slowly.
"A large question for a student in his first week."
"I know. But you're the one who opened the door."
Salar looked at him. Then — for the first time — he smiled. A small, sad smile:
"Your father was the greatest warrior I saw in fifty years. And the most reckless."
"Why?"
"Because he chose to remember."
Kayan was quiet. Then:
"What does that mean?"
Salar placed his hand on the desk. The black band on his wrist — for the first time Kayan noticed something beneath it. An old scar.
"One piece of information per day, Kayan. That's what I can give you. Because each piece carries a price — not to me. To you."
"I accept the price."
"You don't know it yet."
Salar stood. He went to the window and looked out.
"Your father's name was Kad. He carried the same Ather you carry. And thirteen years ago — the night of your birth — he disappeared."
He turned:
"He didn't die, Kayan. He disappeared. There's a difference."
Kayan left the office.
The corridor was full of students. The usual noise. But Kayan heard nothing.
He didn't die. He disappeared.
Thirteen years believing his father was dead. Thirteen years carrying a grief for someone who might — just might — still be breathing somewhere.
He stopped in the middle of the corridor.
Students moved around him. One bumped him without apologizing. Another looked and looked away.
Kayan noticed none of it.
Only one thought:
If he's alive — where is he? And why didn't he come?
And another question, worse than the first:
Does he even know I exist?