The next morning, Marine was running late. She sprinted down the street, bag bouncing against her side, and barely slipped into her seat as the teacher walked in.
"Good morning, students," Mrs. Hoga announced. "We'll begin today by checking yesterday's homework. Rex, you first. And by the way—where have you been the last few days?"
Rex stood slowly, clutching his notebook. His voice was steady, but faint.
"Ma'am… I wasn't well. I've recovered now."
"Good," Mrs. Hoga said kindly. "Then let's hear it."
Rex opened his notebook, his eyes scanning the words.
"My parents… they were always strict with me. But I don't remember much about them. When I was five—or not even five—they abandoned me. We were eight brothers and sisters. I know they couldn't handle all of us, so… maybe their decision was right."
His voice cracked. Tears rolled down his cheeks before he could stop them.
Even Mrs. Hoga, the strictest teacher in school, felt her eyes sting. She walked over and pulled Rex into her arms.
He sobbed, clinging to her as though she were his long-lost mother.
Mrs. Hoga too carried scars. She had lost her husband and children in a car accident, the same tragedy that had left her left hand crippled. She held Rex tightly, whispering, "I can feel your pain."
The class was silent. The only sound was his sobbing.
After a few minutes, they returned to their places. One by one, other students read their paragraphs. Hiro, Rex's close friend, gave his in five languages—English, Sanskrit, Japanese, Haryanvi, Hindi. Many others followed with different tongues.
Finally, Marine stood up. Her chin lifted proudly.
"Parents… mother and father… they are our first gods, our first love, the ones we never wish to part with. My mother is a housewife. She wakes early to cook for me and my brother. She never rests. She's always helping us, always smiling. My father… I've never met him. He left when I was very small. He's been at war ever since—fighting for peace in this world."
The class erupted into laughter.
"There's no war anywhere!" one boy mocked. "Who fed you that story?"
Marine's fists clenched, but before she could speak, Rex slammed his desk and rose.
"Enough! Is this what your parents taught you? To mock someone's truth? You don't know her father. Maybe he's on a mission far beyond your imagination."
Marine blinked at him. A smile tugged at her lips. A brother… even here.
She finished reading, and when she sat, Mrs. Hoga applauded softly.
Then came Gara's turn. She stood, her voice calm and cold.
"I haven't written anything, ma'am."
"Why?" Mrs. Hoga asked.
"Because I don't have any parents."
The class froze. Even Mrs. Hoga hesitated, her eyes flickering with pity before she returned to her notebook. "Then you may sit, Gara."
For the first time, everyone saw Gara not as the timid girl who feared small sounds, but as someone with a voice sharp and resolute.
At lunch, chaos struck.
A group of boys stormed the grounds—outsiders, not students. They pushed, bullied, beat anyone who stood in their way. The staff tried to stop them, but the boys wouldn't listen.
One grabbed Hiro by the hair. Rex roared, "No one touches my brother!"
He charged, but they caught him by the collar and flung him into a trash bin. Rex climbed out, blood on his lip, fire in his eyes.
"You creeps—I won't spare you!"
They answered with fists. Holding his arms, they beat him mercilessly. By the time police sirens rang in the distance, Rex's body was limp, his uniform stained crimson.
Marine's heart shattered. She blamed herself for not protecting him, her joy turning to stone.
Rex was rushed to the hospital. "Three months of recovery," the doctor said.
Marine grew silent. The girl who once filled the world with laughter became cold, distant, unreachable.
Megum saw it all. And he refused to let his sister stay broken.
That night, he called her for the first time into his hidden garage.
"Marine," he said gently, "want to see me finish my project?"
She answered dully. "Okay. As you wish."
His heart sank, but he pressed on.
Downstairs, the room gleamed like a scientist's dream. Wires, machines, glowing circuits. But the sparkle that once would've lit Marine's eyes was gone.
Megum clenched his jaw. Rex, only you can bring her back… but until then, I'll try.
He opened a glass chamber.
"Look," he said softly.
From within stepped a girl—tall, elegant, almost twenty. Skin like porcelain, hair cascading like silk, eyes glowing faintly. She was beautiful beyond words.
Marine barely reacted.
The girl approached, lifting Marine's chin gently. Their eyes met. Marine froze. For a heartbeat, jealousy stirred inside her. More beautiful than even Mommy… more than me.
That jealousy sparked a flicker of the old Marine.
"So you made someone prettier than Mom. And me?" she huffed.
Megum smirked. "She's a better sister than you anyway."
Marine snapped her head away, cheeks puffing. "Trash can. Always a trash can."
Then she grinned faintly. "But… I guess you've finally done something right, Brother."
Megum's heart swelled. His sister was coming back.
"What's her name?" Marine asked.
"No. ISA7009," he said proudly.
Marine groaned. "Really? Trash can strikes again."
He chuckled. "Then why don't you name her? She spoke to you first."
Marine turned to the girl. "Hmm… Isa… Isaaa… Isak… Isaka. Yes! From now on, you're Isaka, my big sister."
For the first time in weeks, Marine smiled.
Upstairs, Silvey gasped when she saw the girl. "Megum! Why did you make her more beautiful than me?"
Her jealousy faded into sorrow as memories struck—memories of her best friend, the one she lost long ago in a war for love.
Still, they laughed at the table that night. Marine teased, Megum taunted, and even Isaka learned to laugh.
For a fleeting moment, the family was whole again.
But joy never lingers long.
And the silence after laughter often hides the darkest storms.