ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝟙: 𝔇𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶

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The road stretched out beneath a sky streaked with early morning light, the asphalt smooth and unforgiving. A low rumble echoed in the distance, barely more than a whisper at first. But as the seconds ticked by, the sound grew, intensifying into a deep, thunderous growl.

Tiny grains of sand along the racetrack trembled and danced, responding to the approach of something powerful. The cheers of the crowd began to rise—a wave of excitement that swelled and crashed against the roaring engines in the background.

The vibrations pulsed through the track as the first cars shot past, streaks of color slicing through the air. The force of their speed sent sharp gusts rippling through the stands, where spectators clutched their hats and leaned back, bracing against the pressurized gust that followed in the cars’ wake.

The roar of engines and the wind’s rush collided in a symphony of power, the heart-pounding rhythm of Formula 1 at its peak.

Amidst it all, one car moved with a precision that bordered on artistry, effortlessly carving through the twists and bends. Noel was at the wheel, his senses attuned to every vibration, every shift in the track beneath him.

The crowd’s deafening cheers blurred into a distant hum, eclipsed by the pulse of the engine and the drumbeat of his heart. The horizon stretched ahead, the finish line looming like a promise within reach, as Noel’s grip tightened around the wheel. Each corner, each straightaway, was a dance of man and machine in perfect sync.

In the background, the commentators’ voices echoed over the track’s loudspeakers barely cutting through the adrenaline. “And Heikkinen is maintaining his lead with flawless precision! The crowd is going wild for Noel, a true legend in the making!”

Another commentator chimed in, his voice filled with admiration and excitement. “At 37 years old, Noel Heikkinen is redefining the limits of what's possible in racing. This season, he's been an unstoppable force, an artist on the track. If he crosses that finish line first today, it will be his tenth consecutive victory. Not only would this cement his place in the annals of racing history, but it would also set a new world record for the highest number of races won in a single season. It's a feat that's nothing short of phenomenal!”

Just a few seconds behind him, his teammate was tasked with maintaining a defensive line, blocking any competitors from closing the gap. “Watch closely,” the commentator urged. “His teammate’s positioning is crucial—it’s all about holding off the pack and securing Heikkinen’s lead.”

But in Formula 1, even a whisper of a mistake can spiral into catastrophe. As they approached a high-speed corner, everything unraveled in a heartbeat.

Pushing to reduce the gap, Noel’s teammate miscalculated the braking point by just a fraction. He should have smoothly decelerated, but instead, his tires locked up, the screech of rubber fighting against the track filling the air.

Panic rippled through his movements as he overcorrected his steering, trying desperately to regain control.

“Oh no! It looks like Heikkinen’s teammate has locked up his brakes!” the commentator’s voice rose in alarm. “He’s lost control—this could be disastrous!”

The sudden movement caused his car to veer off its intended line, clipping the rear of Noel’s car. “He’s clipped Noel! This is unbelievable!” the commentator exclaimed.

The world turned upside down as Noel's car flipped, the delicate balance of aerodynamics shattered. The screech of metal against asphalt was the last thing he heard before everything went black. The commentator’s voice echoed faintly in his fading consciousness, “A tragic turn of events for Heikkinen, just moments away from making history.”

Noel jolted awake, drenched in sweat. His breathing was ragged as he blinked away the remnants of his nightmare. The ceiling of his bedroom came into focus, a harsh reminder of his reality.

Five years had passed since the crash, yet the memories clung to him, sharp and unforgiving, as though time itself had refused to smooth their edges. Noel’s hand hovered over the sheets, brushing against the emptiness where his legs should have been.

He didn’t need to touch the void to feel its weight; it pressed on him constantly, a dull ache echoing through the hollow space that time hadn’t softened.

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With a practiced motion, he sighed and pushed himself upright, sliding into the wheelchair that felt more like an extension of him than his own limbs ever had.

As he moved past the dresser, his reflection caught his eye, pulling him into the image staring back. The man in the mirror was a far cry from the unstoppable force he used to be, yet traces of that former self lingered stubbornly in his features.

His face was distinctly Finnish—fair skin with sharp blue eyes that still carried a flicker of defiance, and sandy blonde hair streaked with gray, slicked back in a futile attempt to impose some order.

Freckles, once softened by youth, had grown more pronounced against the lines etched deep into his forehead and around his mouth. Age had worn him down, but it hadn’t completely smoothed the edges; his jawline remained angular and stubborn beneath the trimmed, silver-flecked beard that framed it.

Noel stared a moment longer, taking in the changes time had carved into him. The strength that once powered his every motion was hidden beneath layers of weariness, yet in those icy blue eyes lingered remnants of the man who used to see every finish line as a challenge to push beyond, not an endpoint.

He turned away, pushing forward, leaving the reflection behind as just another relic among the trophies lining the walls—a reminder of the man he used to be and the constant struggle to accept who he had become.

Noel wheeled himself into the kitchen, where the cozy warmth of morning wrapped around him like a familiar embrace. The scent of pancakes mingled with the rich aroma of coffee, a fleeting comfort that momentarily softened the tight knot in his chest.

For just an instant, the gentle rhythm of home—his wife humming under her breath, the crackle of batter on the stove—dulled the jagged edges of his thoughts.

“Morning, Eevi,” Noel said, his voice rough as he tried to shake off the lingering unease of his nightmare. The images clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind, refusing to fade entirely.

Eevi glanced over her shoulder, offering a warm smile, though her eyes lingered on him just long enough to gauge whether he was holding steady or slipping back into that familiar well of self-pity.

Her features held a quiet elegance—high cheekbones framed by ash-blonde hair that fell in soft, natural waves. Her green eyes, clear and steady, conveyed a warmth tempered by quiet resilience.

At forty, her beauty had matured in a way that deepened with time, marked by faint lines around her eyes and mouth. It wasn’t the kind of beauty that turned heads, but rather one that carried a refined grace.

The look she gave him was one Noel had come to recognize—a queit, caring assessment shaped by years of knowing when he needed pulling back from the edge.

“Morning, love. How did you sleep?” she asked softly, her voice a gentle thread of affection woven into the quiet hum of the kitchen.

She turned back to the stove, the flick of her wrist precise as she flipped a pancake with practiced ease. The sizzle of batter hitting the pan filled the air, a soothing sound that almost masked the tension hovering beneath their exchange.

Noel shrugged, the gesture more tired than indifferent. It was the kind of shrug that had become a shield, a way of deflecting without outright lying.

“Same as always,” he murmured, his words heavy with the familiar resignation that clung to him like a shadow. They both knew what haunted him—the memories replayed in fragments behind his eyes, too vivid to fade, too painful to voice.

The silence that followed wasn’t strained, but it carried the weight of a shared understanding that only deepened with time.

Noel cleared his throat, trying to cut through the heaviness hanging between them. “Where’s Leon?”

“He’s been holed up in his room for days,” Eevi replied, a faint frown tugging at her brow as she deftly flipped the next pancake.

“Ever since he got that new VR game a few weeks ago, it’s like he barely comes out anymore.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but the concern threading through her words was unmistakable.

“Cut him some slack, Eevi,” Noel said gently. “He can’t go out much, and it’s only going to get tougher with summer around the corner. The game’s his escape. And you remember what happened last year when he tried to be outside during the day.”

Eevi’s heart clenched at the memory. Leon had come dangerously close to losing his life after being exposed to sunlight too long. They couldn’t afford another close call like that.

Their seventeen-year-old son’s rare condition, porphyria, left him vulnerable—sunlight was a threat that confined him to the house, especially during the long summer days in Rovaniemi, where the sun barely dipped below the horizon.

The house had been renovated for his safety—every window fitted with UV-blocking glass, heavy curtains constantly drawn to keep the interior dim and secure.

Eevi sighed, the tension easing slightly from her voice as she spoke again. “I know, but it still worries me. He’s so wrapped up in that game, and I’m afraid it’s starting to take over. What if it affects his grades? He’s barely engaging with his online classes.”

Noel nodded, his concern mirroring hers, but before he could respond, the sound of slow, uneven footsteps creaked down the stairs. They both turned toward the sound, anticipating their son’s arrival.