The Weight of a Small World
"So," Victor murmured to himself, barely more than an exhale, "I have to convince her…"
His voice slipped into the dim room like a secret he wished he didn't have to say out loud.
A slow breath left him. His shoulders dropped. His fingers unconsciously brushed the side of his bed as if anchoring himself to something steady.
"…Fine."
The chandelier overhead burned softly, its warm glow casting long, slanted shadows across the stone walls—shadows that stretched and twisted like silent witnesses circling around him, waiting for his next step.
The winter competition waited.
His path waited.
His mother's wrath waited—sharp, absolute, unflinching.
Victor's jaw tightened as he looked toward the window, toward the night-dark sky. The world outside was quiet, unaware of the storm gathering in his chest.
He ran a hand through his hair and let the thoughts spill out inside him.
Convince her… huh.
