Again.
"Freedom," I recited, "can be defined as the ability to act without constraint... but it's a little more complicated than that."
And again.
"For some, like Descartes, freedom is the existence of free will."
And again.
"For others, like Spinoza, everything is determined by external causes."
And…
"Again."
He didn't even look up.
Once more, my father's heavy voice echoed across the room.
I stood there, motionless, repeating this damn philosophy lesson for the umpteenth time, as if getting it perfect could somehow save me.
Back straight. Chin up. Eyes forward.
Stoic and hollow.
Everything had to be perfect.
And he made sure of that.
Always.
His eyes — pale, nearly translucent, but sharp as glass — dissected every detail with surgical precision. A slip of the tongue, a misplaced word, a blink too long... any of it could be enough to trigger disappointment.
It was... suffocating.
'Keep it together, Sol. Just be clean. Efficient. Like always.'
A sigh tickled the edge of my lips, but I swallowed it whole.
Our eyes met.
Blue on blue.
We looked like mirror images.
Same jet-black hair. Same angular face. Same unbearable silence.
People who knew us used to say we were like twins.
But there was nothing comforting in the resemblance.
Just before I was born, my parents had moved out of the countryside and settled near Haurelis, the capital of Gallia.
Here, everyone knew my father.
Over the years, he built a reputation — the diligent professional, the iron-willed man always dressed to the nines, admired for his so-called wisdom.
The self-made man.
The kind of man who'd one day force his bloodline into the elite circles of the golden city.
Once, I overheard kids in the neighborhood say being born into the Dubois family was a blessing.
A role model, right?
'Bullshit.'
To me, he was just a cold face with a fortress of expectations — so many they could crush the dreams of the boldest dreamer.
A man who always wanted more than what he had.
He was my curse — forged at birth, wrapped in a golden cage.
"Freedom can be defined…"
The minutes stretched, my voice the only sound slicing through the thick silence of his office.
Behind him, a worn-out clock ticked.
Its hands moved painfully slow. 11:30 p.m.
'Newsflash, old man: regular people sleep at this hour.'
Before I could slip further into that thought, his voice struck like a whip.
"Kant?"
My brain stalled. Nothing came out.
Kant? What—
Oh.
Oooh.
I'm screwed.
"Freedom is the autonomy of the will," he answered for me after a long pause.
And I knew.
Knew exactly what would follow — like muscle memory.
My hands curled into fists.
I held onto the mask I'd built over the years — stone by stone, crack by crack.
Same routine.
Again.
"It means you're not free when you do whatever you want," he continued, easing back into his leather chair, "but when you set your own rules. Ones that align with reason."
A slow, tired sigh escaped him.
My nails bit into my palms. Not enough to hurt — just enough to ground me.
To keep myself from exploding — because the person in front of me wasn't a father.
He was a judge, ready to deliver a sentence.
I clenched my jaw and stayed silent.
But he wasn't finished.
Of course not.
"You need to hold yourself accountable. Even when you don't feel like it. Even when you're exhausted. Freedom's not about doing whatever. It's about discipline. It's about standing up, focusing, learning — without anyone needing to drag you forward."
I don't even remember lowering my head — but it didn't matter.
I could feel his expression anyway — the same sculpted disappointment etched onto his face.
And still, he pushed further.
"If you can't do that, then you're not free. You're a slave to your laziness. To your distractions. You think the world waits while you 'try'?"
"I understand… Father," I murmured, almost begging him to stop.
"No. You don't. You can't even meet my eyes. Can't even top your class. Is it because of those — what are they — those Niharian comic books you keep hiding?"
'Manga. Get it right, fossil.'
I kept my mouth shut.
One more word would've sunk me.
He sighed, closed the book, and walked to the door.
At last... the execution was over. For now.
But no. He turned for the final blow.
"Fix yourself, Sol. This family accepts nothing less than excellence. I've taken care of those distractions. And don't even think about becoming like your mother. I have bigger plans for you than that coward. Dinner's in the fridge. Wake-up call's at six."
And just like that, he was gone.
Silence reclaimed the room.
I stayed there, frozen.
Finally free from the weight of that man — and before 1 a.m., no less.
World record.
Even though it had ended in a failure again, I waited, hoping for the comfort of a small victory.
But it never came.
Nothing had changed.
Still stiff. Still silent. Still barely breathing.
Still empty.
A bitterness rose in my throat.
And in a dry, quiet breath, I let the truth spill out:
"She left because of you, asshole."
The rage crawled back in — slow, feverish, familiar.
I saw flashes of the living room, the shouting, the burned-out meals, the bruised silences.
My mother's voice, cracking under exhaustion, begging for space. Her scent mixing with overcooked food and unspoken fear.
I was eleven.
That was the day I realized I'd grow up without her.
Because of him.
The spiral tugged again.
What would he do if I trashed his precious office?
Would he finally react?
Or would he throw me out, just like he always threatened?
And the worst part?
That sounded kind of... nice.
A clean cut. A final escape. A hacksaw for the golden bars.
Tempting. Way too tempting.
But... no.
I brushed the thought aside.
One of the only perks of staying here... was the hideout.
Almost done, Sol. Hang in there…
I closed my eyes, inhaled deep, and raised my hands.
*BAM*
Both palms slapped my cheeks.
Back to reality, I forced a smile — practiced to perfection.
Time to go.
'They're waiting.'
I slipped out of the office, closing the door without a sound.
The hallway was dark. Not the kind that frightens — the kind that comforts.
The kind that belongs to me.
My footsteps barely made a sound on the cold tiles. I knew this house like second nature — every creaking board, every betraying step.
At first, it was love.
Now, it was survival.
At the end of the corridor, I stood between two doors: mine, and his.
A pale glow seeped from beneath his door.
He was still awake. Probably working. Again.
I scoffed and looked up.
My real destination.
An old trapdoor in the ceiling.
I climbed onto my doorframe, stretched, and reached it. A rusty padlock dangled from it, pretending to be secure.
Click.
The sound was soft. Like it knew me.
A smile tugged at my lips.
I opened the hatch and unfolded the wooden ladder, one step at a time.
Warm air brushed my face.
I climbed, pulled the hatch closed behind me, and exhaled.
Here… everything changed.
The attic was small, dusty, poorly insulated — but it had a soul.
Not his.
Mine.
Behind piles of old boxes, my mother's folded dresses, and trinkets he never had the courage to throw away, I had carved out a home.
My sanctuary.
I ducked past a lamp I had bought in secret, brushing past crates of old fabrics and forgotten memories.
The walls were covered in sketches — taped, pinned, and even drawn directly on the surface.
They were fragments of thoughts, silent screams, half-dreams.
Scattered across the space were little trinkets, nameless souvenirs I had picked up over the years. Things that had no story, so I gave them mine.
I peeled off my sweater, letting it fall as my shoulders dropped with it.
Here, I didn't have to stand tall.
I collapsed onto the blankets I had layered across the floor — my cocoon of soft, stubborn rebellion. As I call it.
Eyes closed. Deep breath.
Minutes passed while I finally relaxed.
Then I stirred, sat up slowly, and moved toward the old suitcases under the beams.
Inside were my mother's old clothes, folded and untouched.
I lifted one carefully, fingers tracing the fabric.
Beneath it — hidden, waiting — was my treasure.
My hand knew exactly where to go.
I found it.
A grin broke through. A real one. Just for them.
"Guess who's back…"
I slid the book free like it was sacred.
The cover was worn to the bone, but the pages were alive.
Two Piece.
They were waiting.
I crawled back into my nest and opened the world they guarded.
The faces, the voices, the madness, the pain.
I knew every detail by heart.
They weren't just drawings or random fiction.
They were my friends.
The ones who didn't judge.
The ones who had it worse — and still stood back up.
In their printed eyes, I saw what I saw in mine: fear, anger, will.
But they had more.
They had joy. Adventure. Growth.
They kept me breathing.
I never believed in angels. But if I ever had one… they were it.
I sighed, flipping another page.
"I wish I could be with them."
I knew it was childish. But in their world, I mattered.
I wasn't the daughter of a ghost in a suit.
I wasn't a replacement project.
I was just… Sol.
And tonight, that was enough.