A Memory Rekindled

The trophy gleamed under the stadium lights, a testament to countless hours of sweat and grit. My fingers, calloused from gripping rackets and steering wheels, traced its cool, metallic surface. Badminton and racing – they had become my solace, my escape from the sterile world of blueprints and critical gazes. The scent of polished wood and the roar of the crowd were far more welcoming than the hushed, judgmental silence of Valerie Suppasorn’s office. It had been months since I’d last sketched a building, months since I’d felt the sting of her disapproval. I told myself I didn’t miss it, that the thrill of a perfectly executed smash or the blur of the finish line was enough. But deep down, a small, persistent ache remained.

My phone buzzed, a bright splash of color against the muted tones of the locker room. It was Jio, his usual boisterous self. “Rein! You won again! Dad’s bragging about you to everyone. He says you’re a natural, just like him.” A smile played on my lips. Dad always did have a way of making things sound grand. He’d been a decent architect in his day, but never the titan my father, Ride, had become. And now, here I was, a shadow of what I could have been, chasing fleeting victories on a court.

“Thanks, Jio. Tell Dad I said hi, and that I’m still trying to live up to his legendary smashes.”