Solstice in Grandeur

Chapter 4: Year 4 - The Missing Detail

Hong Haein’s fourth year brought new beginnings. Her parents decided it was time for her to start school, a prestigious institution known for educating the children of the elite. The uniform felt strange against her small frame, and the school building, with its tall gates and manicured lawns, seemed almost daunting. The other children, some excited and others nervous, clustered around their parents, holding hands or hugging their legs.

Haein, however, stood alone. Her father had dropped her off in a rush, barely stopping the car before letting her out. He had muttered something about meetings, and then he was gone, the car disappearing around the corner, leaving her standing at the entrance with a bag too big for her shoulders and shoes too shiny for the dusty path.

School was a new world, one that seemed vibrant and full of possibilities. Yet, for Haein, it was another place where she felt different. She watched the other children chatter excitedly, already forming bonds, while she hung back, her eyes wide, taking everything in. She was polite, well-mannered, and quiet, just as she had been taught. The teachers praised her behaviour, but she noticed the way they would look at her curiously, as if they were trying to solve a puzzle.

The days passed, and Haein began to find her rhythm in this new environment. She learned to read and write, to add and subtract, her small hands gripping the pencil tightly as she carefully traced each letter. She didn’t speak much to the other children, preferring to observe from a distance, but there were moments when she would smile at a classmate or share her crayons with someone who had forgotten theirs. She was not unfriendly, just cautious, her young heart still bruised from her mother's coldness.

Then, one day, an announcement was made. The school was holding its annual Family Day, a celebration where parents were invited to join their children for games, performances, and a shared lunch. The classroom buzzed with excitement as the teacher explained the event, outlining the activities planned and encouraging everyone to bring their parents. The children’s faces lit up at the thought, their voices rising in a cheerful chorus of plans and hopes.

Haein felt a knot form in her stomach. She knew her parents would not come. Her father was always away, lost in his world of meetings and business deals. Her mother… well, Haein had stopped expecting anything from her mother a long time ago. But she kept quiet, her face expressionless, nodding along with the rest of the class.

As the day of the event approached, the excitement in the school grew. Children talked non-stop about their preparations, about the games they would play with their fathers or the performances they would put on for their mothers. Haein listened, her heart heavy, as she realized more and more that she would be the only one without anyone there.

Finally, the day arrived. The schoolyard was decorated with colourful banners, tables were set with food, and a stage had been erected for the children’s performances. Parents began to arrive, filling the space with laughter and chatter. The air was thick with joy, the sun shining bright overhead. Haein stood by the side, her hands clasped together, watching as child after child was greeted by warm embraces, by smiles and cheers.

She tried not to feel the sting of loneliness, tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. But as more and more families gathered, and she remained alone, that familiar ache began to grow. Her teacher noticed, her brow furrowing with concern as she approached Haein.

“Haein, dear, where are your parents?” the teacher asked gently, her voice filled with a kindness that made the little girl’s throat tighten.

Haein blinked, forcing herself to smile, a small, strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I… I forgot to tell them” she replied quietly, her voice steady despite the hurt she felt deep inside.

The teacher looked surprised but didn’t press further. “Oh, I see… well, maybe next year, then,” she said softly, giving Haein’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before moving away to greet another parent.

Haein’s smile faltered as soon as the teacher turned her back. She looked around, her small frame feeling even smaller amidst the crowd. Children ran past her, their faces alight with joy, their parents close behind, cheering them on. Haein tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over, tried to keep the mask of indifference she had learned to wear so well.

She wandered to the edge of the field, finding a quiet corner near a large tree. She sat down, drawing her knees to her chest, and watched the festivities from a distance. She could hear the laughter, see the smiles, and feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from every corner of the playground — every corner except hers.

The hours dragged on, and the event continued without her. Haein’s classmates were too busy enjoying their time with their families to notice her sitting alone. She listened to the sounds of the world moving around her, trying to find comfort in the little things — the rustle of leaves above her head, the distant chirp of a bird, the warmth of the sun on her skin.

When the day finally ended, and the parents began to leave, Haein stood up and dusted off her dress. She had learned something that day, something she had already known but now understood with a new clarity: that some things in life were simply not meant for her. That no matter how hard she wished or how much she hoped, there were parts of her world that would always remain out of reach.

She joined her classmates as they lined up to leave, her face calm, her expression unreadable. The teacher smiled at her and patted her shoulder. “Maybe next time, Haein,” she said kindly.

Haein nodded, her lips curving into a polite smile. “Yes, maybe next time,” she replied softly, though she knew in her heart that there might never be a next time, at least not one that would be different.

As she walked home that day, alone and small against the setting sun, she felt a familiar ache settle in her chest. But she held her head high, her steps steady, as she made her way back to the grand house that seemed to grow colder with every passing year.

She had learned, in her own quiet way, to carry the weight of her solitude like a second skin, and she knew that in this life, she would have to learn to be her own strength.