His words left a charged silence, sharp enough to make Elian hold his breath. Just as his heartbeat threatened to burst, Vance's voice returned:

  "...back on the field again." Only then did he finish the sentence.

  Elian froze, certain his heart had nearly given out.

  Goddamn it, can't he just say everything in one go?

  All Vance meant was that he wanted him back on the field; the pause had just made it sound strange.

  Elian let out an awkward laugh, terrified of misinterpreting something again.

  After hanging up, Elian turned the contract over in his hands, reading it again and again. Once his daze lifted, he realized his heart was pounding hard again. The chance he had dreamed of for years—he could finally return to the arena.

  Elian had known Vance since he was five, though to Vance he had been nothing more than one of many students. Their relationship had never been close; it was Elian who admired him from afar.

  Well—admired, and annoyed him.

  As a child, he had been shameless, never calling him "Mr. Heaton" with the courtesy he showed now. He'd just call him Vance, or teasingly "young master," trailing after him with endless chatter and jokes. Vance, older and leagues above him in skill, had no interest in humoring him.

  In fact, Vance had once been so exasperated he snapped, "Fuck off!"

  Elian covered his face, drowning in regret at the boldness of his younger self.

  But on this phone call, Vance hadn't mentioned their past at all, which left Elian with a faint, inexplicable disappointment. Was it that Vance bore no grudge, or that he simply didn't remember? Didn't remember the boy who had once stuck to him constantly, desperate for the young master's attention.

  He recalled those cold blue eyes that had once made him hesitate. But the offer was too tempting; whatever animosity there had been was nothing compared to this chance.

  An old postcard lay on his bedside table. Its corners curled, the paper yellowed, its glossy finish worn rough with age. Yet the image was still clear: a boy astride a powerful horse, caught mid-leap over an obstacle.

  The rider's face was hidden in the shadow of his helmet, but his eyes burned sharp, radiating a composure and focus far beyond his years. The horse's muscles coiled, forelegs already airborne, hind legs just pushing off. Mane and tail streamed behind, frozen in the instant of flight.

  Elian traced a fingertip across the takeoff point, his gaze filled with longing for the future.

  The next day, he woke at four-thirty and caught the first bus to an aging public hospital.

  Morning sunlight poured through the windows. White curtains fluttered with the breeze, and the sharp scent of disinfectant was softened by the calm of dawn. In the four-bed ward, no visitors had yet arrived; the room was quiet except for the faint beeping of machines.

  Originally, his mother Emma hadn't needed hospitalization, just regular outpatient chemotherapy. But after multiple rounds of chemo and surgery with no improvement, the doctors had suggested admitting her, administering morphine to ease her suffering. Each day of care burned through money; whatever savings remained, along with Elian's wages, were consumed almost entirely by medical bills.

  When he reached her bedside, Emma was still asleep. He didn't wake her. Instead, he moistened her cracked lips with a cotton swab, checked the IV line, and only then sat down to watch her quietly. She had deep-set eyes and sparse brows; before illness took hold, she had always been a strong, cheerful woman.

  Over an hour later, her brow eased and her eyes opened slowly. She whispered, "Hi."

  "Mom, are you feeling any better?"

  Emma nodded.

  "Still dizzy or nauseous?"

  "No, just... I still can't do anything. I wish I could knit my sweaters again." She gave a faint, tired smile.

  "The doctors said a new targeted therapy has been developed. The side effects should be much lighter. When the time comes, will you try it?"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "That... must be expensive."

  "Dad left us some savings, and even if that's not enough, don't worry. I'll find a way." Elian gripped his mother's cold hand, his voice firm.

  Emma looked at his hand, calloused from hard labor, the wrist swollen in an unnatural way. Her heart ached as she asked, "Why is your hand swollen?"

  Elian smiled. "I hurt it playing basketball with a friend. It doesn't hurt much, don't worry."

  That smile pained her more. She knew her son was working odd jobs and racing horses just to earn money. Ever since he was born, she and her husband had tried to give him the best food, clothes, education.

  Elian could have been a spoiled rich kid. Instead, in his school years, he had shouldered the weight of the household, abandoned his own dreams, and kept putting on a brave face.

  Elian knew his mother was worrying about him again, so he picked up a red paper box to change the subject.

  "Look, Mom. I bought mooncakes! They just released a low-sugar, light-oil version." He added the line with a triumphant grin.

  The moment he opened the box, the faint scent of pastry and flour filled the air, stirring Emma's appetite for the first time in ages.

  "I asked the doctor. He said it's fine for you to have some. I stood in line forever to get these."

  "It's been so long since I had anything like this. Your father used to love them too." Emma smiled.

  "Exactly. You and Dad were always crazy about Asian food. You'd stock up on stuff I couldn't stand, like cilantro and stinky tofu." Elian grimaced at the thought of cilantro.

  "Cilantro is delicious, and good for you," Emma said gently.

  "Don't lie to me. Dad was the only one who'd make up excuses to trick me into eating it. Be honest, did you only marry him because he kept taking you out for Asian food? Otherwise, how could you stand a guy who loved to bluff and crack bad jokes?" Elian lowered his voice, pretending his father might overhear.

  Emma only laughed and shook her head, nibbling on the mooncake Elian handed her.

  After a while, Elian spoke again, this time hesitantly. "Mom, there's something I need to tell you."

  "Go on."

  "Heaton Stables offered me a contract."

  As he expected, Emma's expression turned uncertain, something rare for her. Before she could object, Elian pressed on. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. He won't do anything to me."

  "But..."

  "The terms are really good. I want to train there. It's only about an hour's drive, so I can still come visit you every day."

  He crouched by the bed, looking up at his mother. "Mom, you know how much I want to be back in the arena. This is my only chance."

  Emma didn't have the strength for many words. After a long pause, her expression softened. "I only worry for you. I won't stand in your way. How could I not know what your biggest dream is?"

  Seeing the light in his eyes, she added, "If you've made up your mind, then go."

  "I knew you'd come around." Elian grinned.

  After leaving the hospital, Elian packed up everything he owned, which amounted to little more than a few worn-out shirts, and boarded a battered bus to Heaton Stables.

  A steel keychain dangled from his backpack: a horse-shaped badge given by the U.S. Equestrian Federation. It rattled with each bump as the bus rolled over stones on the road.

  The sky stretched wide and blue. The bus's air conditioning was broken, so the driver had propped the door open for ventilation. Elian pretended he was riding in a convertible, praying tomorrow's headlines wouldn't read: "Shocking! Passenger falls from bus, blood stains the highway!" or "Bus runs over neck! Teen decapitated, eyes still moving!"

  Unlike the small stables out in the suburbs, Heaton Stables sat near a bustling hub of shopping centers and even an airport. The area was crowded with racing grounds and mid-sized stables, a region where the horse industry thrived.

  The gates of Heaton Stables loomed ahead, tall ironwork gleaming in the sun, flanked by long, imposing fences.

  Dressed in a faded sports shirt and carrying a sagging khaki messenger bag, Elian looked out of place, like some broke college kid who had wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

  He tilted his head back, unable to stop himself from marveling. Same kind of place, yet Heaton Stables had the grandeur of an English manor.

  "Oh, you must be Mr. Lien!" a man in a sunhat called out from a distance.

  "Yes, that's me! I just arrived—may I ask if Mr. Heaton is here?"

  As the man drew closer, Elian saw his sunburned face and tightly curled hair. His build was solid, almost stocky.

  "The boss is in a meeting. He asked me to show you around first."

  "Of course. Mr. Heaton must be busy." Elian nodded, secretly relieved he wouldn't have to face Vance so soon.

  "I'm the stable manager here, Timmy." The man offered his hand warmly, his smile full of ease.

  "Just call me Elian. 'Mr. Lien' sounds too formal." Elian chuckled as he shook it.

  Timmy gave him a tour. The outer grounds were wide pastures where the horses could run and play on good days. Beyond that were covered training arenas; Heaton Stables had several, each serving different purposes for clients and riders.

  Elian studied the nearest arena. "It looks like the training grounds have expanded since ten years ago."

  "Exactly!" Timmy said proudly. "Ever since the boss took over, the facilities have been upgraded and expanded. I'm not exaggerating, this stable may not be the best in the world, but it's definitely one of the finest in America."

  "Yeah, and probably the most expensive too."

  "What was that?"

  "Uh, nothing."