"YOU called for me, Dean Keens?"

The brunette boy peeked in the renowned dark oak door marked with the silver placate written with 'DEAN'S OFFICE' above. The middle-aged man behind the desk stared with his chin resting over his folded fingers. The Dean's figure towered over the stacks of folders neatly settled over the glass top of his table. "Please, sit."

The chair resting parallel to the side of his table awaited Lars, which he took with no further delay, sensing the Dean's fierce scrutiny behind his square glasses.

Lars took the initiative to stir the conversation, chasing time, when the man beat him to it. "Do you know why I called you here, Mr. Perez?"

Lars unwittingly looked at him, lest he stain conversation etiquettes, already having a clue of the suggested subject. "If this is about the graffiti at the back of the Stock Room, I'm telling you, Sir, I wasn't with Ryan and the boys at that time," he replied, voice unbothered. "You can ask Irene to vouch for it. We had a small talk in the Library."

Dean Keen's stare never left him as if he were a statue judging him, poking a pique of impatience on the boy. It was not until a click from his tongue that the Dean went under his desk's drawer, retrieving something. It took no less than a second until Lars grasped the context of the papers laid between them, records of which his name was scribbled. Lars stared at the Dean for quite a time, confused.

"This is why," Dean Keens clarified.

This made the boy more baffled. "I don't get it." The papers were marked with his test scores, emphasized in circles with green ink pens. If it were any other guideline violations, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out the reason behind his disposition in the Dean's office. As for cases as such, generally, professors themselves would address the students concerning their progress in their subjects. Yet, it was the Dean himself who directly tackled this topic to him. Furthermore, it was not as if he was failing any of his grades.

"This, Mr. Perez, is already a concerning factor regarding your overall performance in this university. All in all, it would impede your opportunity to enter into elite institutions. That's what you aim for, am I correct?"

Lars tapped his fingers together, pausing, and spoke, "Maybe it's a dream not meant for everyone."

The Dean took off his glasses, inching himself forward over the desk. "My boy, you worked so hard to get this far ahead of your education, and stopping now would put all that effort to waste." He reached to pat the boy's shoulder, urging him to stare into his solemn yet benevolent brown gaze. "Despite passing your classes, what I mean to say is you are offered options that reflect the academic gift you were blessed with. While it is true that the toils of life are unavoidable, would it not give you a greater advantage over them when you continue to strive for better platforms?"

Lars knew what he meant. It was what everyone else meant. The Dean waited for his response, but he could only stare in nonchalant silence, giving the drive to the exchange back to the man.

"I know times are tough, Larson. With the accumulating monthly medical fees regarding your .... situation ... and your father's disappearance, I want to let you know that you don't have to let these things stir you away from achieving the best of what you can be." His voice toned down to genuine melancholy. " Living alone and working multiple shifts is a labor I wouldn't want any student to be in. You don't have to experience the same struggles as we had back before when technologies and systems today are advancing."

Lars remained speechless.

"That's also my point. You've all been by yourself lately. Not to mention, quitting the Feral Ferrets was unexpected of you, a far call from the boy I knew who joined this establishment when he could have picked any other medical college out there just so he could play soccer while proceeding with his studies." The fact made Lars dip his head lower, protesting against the weight of the memory. "I know you weren't along in the vandalism offense, but give yourself time to congregate with others, and join the social events like the Serkaya Carnaval. I suggest with better friends than Ryan and his crew."

The muteness that had been lingering finalized his reaction. His hazel eyes turned away, turning to stare at the beige-tiled floor. The afternoon Sun shined through the windows, giving off a beautiful gold hue to the room.

With a sigh, the Dean concluded the exchange, drawing back to his usual position in the chair. "Very well. I understand you prioritize your time and if you don't want to talk about these. I don't mean to make it more of a burden for you. Rather, this is a heads up in case you're not aware you're losing your way," he said, equipping back his glasses. "You may now go."

"Thank you, Sir." Without another word, Lars left, apathetic.

*

The dusk was a beautiful view that set the beach into a splendid scenery. The orange-to-pink shades of the sky did, at least, alleviate a fraction of the pressure on Lars's shoulder. The waves were at their calmest as they lapped over each other to the sand, wafting a fresh smell of salt breeze in the air.

From his peripheral, Lars can observe the descending Sun across the horizon. As he pedaled on his bike, the surfacing sound of the convention in the town square drowned out the whistle of the waters. From the flourishing colors of perforated paper designs, kaleidoscopic paintings, extravagant stands, food stocks, and a variety of materials being transported from area to area, it was clear the festival was fervently looked forward to for the following week. Lars, on the other hand, evaded the vitality, prompting him to travel on the side of the town beyond the seawall where the coast resides.

His mind drifted along with the smooth motion of the bike over the sands. Sure, he quit the team, but his passion did not tire from the sport. Whenever he could, he practiced joggling the soccer ball his father gifted him at every leisure time he would chance at. If he can, he'd kick the ball to toss it over the gap between the couches.

He would have grown a thorn against the Dean like any other for addressing the crisis cluster of his condition if it weren't for the fact that the man was among the willing sponsors that brought him to Khana State University. It could be from the standpoint that the university seeks capable young scholars to harness their academic flairs to bring to light.

It came as a surprise when Lars was asked to move into his uncle's abode a few months ago to enroll when he heard of the state university's opening. Though laboring as a rigorous fisherman coerced Uncle Crisanto to shift and sleep in the nightly cycles amidst the waters in his trusty boat with his fellow workers, Lars took it upon himself to tend to the house's care. The isolation was no less a drawback, rather, it was an additional perk that made it more comfortable to adjust.

Unlike back in his grandparents' house two regions west where his cousins would make living there a nightmare of cacophonies, the place was a crystal cove of serenity. The whole village is a dreamland of tranquility, for that fact, save for certain events that would bring the festive wild side of the locals such as this month's celebration. As for Lars, he would find the most euphoric moments inside his dainty room, unbothered.

Once he perceived the decks within his clear viewpoint, he knew he was close to home. The only slight hurdle was that the house was directly at the front of the port past the seawall from where the boats would settle, erupting their rumbling engine noises.

Approaching closer, his muse steered to the unnatural sight before him. An empty ski boat wobbled by the docks, unhitched. In addition, there were apparent footsteps.

It was strange. The fishermen would not be coming back until the next two weeks. Maybe one of them was returning home due to urgent circumstances? If so, why would the footsteps be leading to the front of the house? Could it be that Uncle Crisanto has come home early?

Parking his bike inside the shed close by, Lars stalked carefully toward the door. Turning the knob, the door is still locked. Subsequently, he decided to survey the sides of the house, where his bewilderment only soared to ultimate shock.

A hay of long blonde hair swept across the leaf-strewn flagstone. Elevating his eyes beyond the garden shrubs displayed perpendicular to the walls, blocking the full view, Lars heard himself gasp.

A girl was lying down on the ground. Her hair barely covered the white skin on her unconscious, dirt-smeared, bubbly face.

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