The weight of the day’s events bore heavily upon Michael as he trudged home beside Leon, his head bowed as if the very stars conspired to mock him. Gone was the buoyant stride of morning’s hope; now, he walked as one defeated, every step dragging as though some invisible chain bound his feet to the earth. His once-bright eyes, full of naive ambition, now gazed dully at the dirt path ahead. Even Leon’s faceless mechanical companion looked depressed.

By the time they reached home, twilight’s embers had dimmed to ash, the last vestiges of sunlight surrendering to the advancing night. Within, the glow of firelight illuminated a modest but ample table where supper waited: venison flanks steeped in a red wine sauce, honey-glazed carrots pulled fresh from the garden, and bread crusted to perfection. Their mother and Robert sat expectantly, their eyes lifting as the boys entered.

Typically, the evening meal was a lively affair, filled with laughter and good-natured teasing. Tonight, however, the table felt like a stage draped in uneasy silence. Michael sank into his chair as though the weight of the world bore down upon his slender shoulders. His movements were mechanical, devoid of spirit, as he poked at the venison without appetite.

Joyce, ever gentle, leaned forward, her concern etched plainly upon her face. “Michael, dear,” she ventured softly, “what troubles you so?”

The boy merely muttered an excuse, his voice thin as a whisper of wind. Then, without waiting for permission, he rose abruptly from the table and slipped out into the cool embrace of night, leaving his plate untouched and his family exchanging puzzled glances.

It was left to Leon to provide an account of the day’s events. With his characteristic detachment, he explained how Michael, emboldened by morning’s fleeting optimism, had declared his affections to a girl at school. The result, alas, had been disastrous. The girl, it seemed, was not unattached but claimed by another—tall, brutish, and notoriously cruel. The rejection had not been quiet; it had been a spectacle, one that culminated in Michael’s humiliation at the hands of a new rival.

Later that night, when the household lay quiet and the hearth’s embers pulsed faintly like the heart of some dying beast, Robert rose from his chair. Leaning heavily on his cane, he stepped into the yard, where the chill of the evening clung to the air. The moon hung low, casting its silvery light over the land and revealing Michael’s silhouette upon a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. The boy sat motionless, staring into the shadows of the forest as though seeking solace within their depths.

Robert approached with the deliberate tread of a man who bore the weight of countless battles, his cane tapping against the ground like the tolling of a distant bell. He seated himself beside his son, silent for a moment as he studied the boy’s bowed head. When he finally spoke, his words were as blunt and unyielding as the anvil he worked.

“Michael,” he said, his voice rough with authority, “it’s because you aren’t good enough.”

The boy’s head snapped up, his face a portrait of shock and betrayal. He had expected consolation, perhaps even a morsel of encouragement. Instead, Robert’s stark pronouncement struck like a hammer blow.

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Michael sucked in a breath, his chest heaving with indignation. “What?” he managed, his voice trembling.

Robert’s gaze was steady, unrelenting. “Put yourself in her place,” he continued. “You’re near the bottom of your class. You’re slow, lethargic. You’re neither respected nor feared. And yet, you marched up to the prettiest girl in school with nothing but a boy’s foolish hope. Why would she choose you? Of course, she rejected you. You’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”

Michael recoiled as if struck, tears welling in his eyes. “But he’s a monster,” he stammered, his voice quaking. “Why would she want to be with someone like that?”

Robert’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. “Because, Michael, every time you’ve watched him torment someone smaller, every time you’ve seen him steal, shove, and humiliate—and you did nothing—you’ve allowed him to remain the stronger man.”

“I—I couldn’t do anything!” Michael protested, his voice rising in desperation. “He’s bigger, stronger. Everyone’s afraid of him—not just me.”

Robert leaned forward, his scarred face inches from Michael’s. “Exactly,” he growled, his words cutting like tempered steel. “You’ve watched him terrorize others, and you’ve stood by, complicit in your silence. And now you wonder why he wins?” He snorted derisively. “You dream of heroics, yet when a real villain appears, you cower. If you can’t face him, what will you do when something far worse comes for this village?”

Michael faltered, his voice thin. “But if I fought back, I’d be punished too. The school rules say—”

“Rules?” Robert’s voice dripped with scorn. “You hide behind rules while others suffer? You call that justice? A real defender finds a way. Perhaps you can’t beat him in a fight. So what? You make him pay another way. Be clever, be fast, be unpredictable. Do something. But standing idle, blaming rules and fear, makes you no better than the bully himself.”

Michael turned away, his tears spilling freely now. “I was scared,” he whispered.

Robert’s tone softened, though his words retained their edge. “Fear is natural. But letting fear dictate your choices? That’s weakness. And that’s what you must change. You want respect? You want people to rely on you? Then you must earn it. Stop expecting admiration for empty words and unproven dreams.”

The night pressed heavily around them, silent save for the distant rustling of leaves. Robert straightened, tapping his cane against the ground. “This isn’t about the girl, Michael. It’s about who you are and who you could become. If you won’t stand up now, you never will.”

Michael’s voice cracked as he murmured, “I didn’t realize… I didn’t know what to do.”

Robert nodded, his expression grim. “Few do. But now you’ve learned. What you do next will decide what kind of man you’ll become.”

Rising slowly, Robert turned and began walking back toward the house, his shadow stretching long under the moonlight. As he walked, his face contorted into a dark grimace. “Tomorrow, I’m going to that damn academy. I’m going to find out which fool decided to promote cowardice as a virtue in my children, and I’ll let them know that ……an adjustment is needed,” he thought to himself, echoing Leon’s phrase with bitter irony.

Michael remained on the log, staring at the stars as though seeking answers from the heavens. His father’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and unrelenting. “I’m not good enough,” he whispered, the admission bitter on his tongue. And yet, in that bitterness, a flicker of resolve took root—a quiet, uncertain determination to prove the words wrong.