Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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The days in district four had blurred for Azalea into a relentless cycle of academic improvement and grueling training.
The rhythmic thud of her boot hitting the training dummy echoed through the academy gym, each strike fueled by a fire she hadn't felt in months. Azalea moved with a renewed intensity, pushing herself harder, faster, sweat dripping down her forehead like a testament to her determination.
Every muscle scream in protest, but Azalea pushed harder. The pain, both physical and emotional, became a strange motivator. It was her penance, her act of rebellion, a way to prove to herself, perhaps even to him, that she wouldn't be broken.
This wasn't about pleasing her father, not anymore. She was getting better.
Since the argument with Tomas, a quiet war had been waged within Azalea's room. The silence between them was as heavy as the confiscated guitar leaning against the wall, a constant reminder of her defiance and his punishment. Each morning, she woke up with a renewed determination to bridge the gap, not for reconciliation, but for liberation.
The irony wasn't lost on Azalea.
By day, she pushed herself in the training yard and aced her classes, all in pursuit of her confiscated guitar.
Yet, every Friday night, under the cloak of darkness, she slipped out of her window, her song book hidden beneath her coat.
The destination wasn't the academy or her room overflowing with textbooks, but the clandestine parties by the Andersen restaurrant, a hidden haven where her voice could truly soar. It was a defiance not just against her father, but against the limitations he had placed on her.
Deep she truly wished she could share this with her father too. But he would never understand. And deep down, the thrill of the secret was intoxicating.
Azalea aced the latest history test, the red 'A' bleeding onto the white paper like a defiant splash of color against the monotony of her recent grades.
A small, satisfied smile played on her lips. The satisfaction wasn't in the achievement itself, but in the tangible reward it promised. Each good grade was a brick laid on the path towards her ultimate goal: reclaiming her beloved guitar.
She burst into her father's study, a smile already playing on her lips.
"Look Pa," she said, her voice shaky with nervous anticipation. "I got all A's this last semester."
Her father glanced at the paper, his expression unreadable. "Good," he finally conceded, the word hollow and devoid of warmth. "You should have."
Azalea's heart sank. All those grueling hours, all that pent-up frustration, for this? "So," she pleaded, "can I please have my guitar back now?"
Tomas' gaze hardened. "No."
"I'm working so hard!" Azalea protested. "What more can I do?"
"This is how you always should have worked." He countered. Standin up, "Now you need to focus on your training. Let's do another double session tomorrow."
