The grand lecture hall of Riverdale University's Humanities Education elective was unusually silent that afternoon. Rows of students sat with glowing eyes, their gazes locked on the projector screen at the front. The program being shown was no ordinary academic presentation—it was the headline broadcast of [Sophia's Family Past].
Professor Grace, the one who had chosen to air this segment, stood tall at the podium, her arms folded. She was a strict woman in her fifties, known for her sharp tongue and her confidence in dissecting human behavior. While the students seemed entertained, Grace wore an expression of disappointment mixed with disdain.
On the screen, the camera lingered on the image of a man—Victor, Sophia's father.
Grace shook her head lightly and muttered with contempt, "He is incompetent as a father. According to Sophia's tone in earlier interviews, I already know the reason."
She paused, letting her words cut through the quiet air. The students leaned in closer, eager for the professor's analysis.
"It must have been like this," Grace continued. "Sophia became famous, and her father felt inferior and resentful. Instead of supporting her success, he drowned in his own bitterness. This is common among people from the lower rungs of society. They are unable to achieve anything themselves, so when their loved ones succeed, it only reminds them of their own failures. And then, they lash out in anger."
Her voice was calm but filled with certainty. Grace prided herself on her realism; once she had formed a judgment, she rarely entertained the idea of being wrong. The students scribbled notes, as if her opinions were gospel.
---
Meanwhile, the story unfolded on the screen.
It was a memory from more than two decades ago.
Sophia was just four years and five months old.
Her father, Victor, had gone to work at one of his many part-time jobs, leaving her alone at home. She was a curious child with a restless spirit. That day, she fiddled with the front door until it creaked open. She didn't realize that doing so triggered the apartment's security alarm. Oblivious, she wandered outside and climbed the stairwell to the rooftop.
The rooftop was not unfamiliar to her. Victor had once brought her there, showing her the city skyline, the unfinished buildings, and the wide stretch of river glimmering in the distance. Today, unable to resist, she snuck up by herself.
The sun was warm as it bathed her small frame. Sophia sat down on the crumbling concrete floor of the rooftop, her long hair fluttering in the wind. Her delicate features seemed almost unreal for a child of her age. Even at four, there was something ethereal about her—an elegance and cold grace that contrasted sharply with her innocence.
Then, as if the sunlight awakened something inside her, she began to sing. Her voice was pure, untrained yet filled with raw emotion. Behind her, the rows of half-built structures stood like ghosts of abandoned dreams, painting the scene in shades of decay. But in the midst of this ruin, Sophia was like a tiny angel walking against the sun, radiating warmth in a place where none should exist.
Her little legs swung gently to the rhythm of her song, dangling freely from the ledge.
---
On another rooftop just thirty meters away, a young cameraman named Charles was at work. He had been hired to film the "local life" of the area, capturing the textures of poverty and the spirit of survival. Yet, when he spotted the little girl across the gap, his breath caught.
The voice drifted over the wind, soft but unwavering. It was not just the voice—it was the confidence and sincerity in it that struck him.
Unable to resist, Charles cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, "You're so beautiful, little one! Where did you learn that song?"
Sophia looked up. Her eyes were wide and unclouded by suspicion, but her answer was firm.
"This song is called Butterfly Flight," she said proudly. "I wrote it myself. My mother died. My father told me that she became a worm. But one day, she will break out of her cocoon and become a butterfly, flying high into the sky, crossing every obstacle just to come see me again."
Her words stunned Charles. For a child barely five years old, the imagery was heartbreaking yet profoundly poetic.
Sophia sang again, her voice echoing in the air. Charles, without even realizing, pressed the record button on his camera. He filmed her every note, her swaying legs, her wind-tousled hair, and above all—the quiet conviction in her voice.
By the time Sophia waved goodbye and skipped away, the cameraman was trembling slightly. He was still marveling, whispering to himself, "What kind of parents gave birth to such an extraordinary child?"
He thought no more of it and uploaded the short clip online, titling it casually: [Butterfly Flight – An Original Song by a Four-Year-Old Child].
---
But the internet had other plans.
The first viewer was moved to tears and shared it. The tenth viewer shared it again, adding their admiration. By the time the thousandth viewer saw it, it was already snowballing into a phenomenon. Soon, tens of thousands had shared it.
Charles realized something was happening only when his phone froze. Notifications came endlessly, his social media unable to load. It wasn't just a viral moment—it was a sensation.
The world had just been introduced to Sophia, though at the time, no one knew how far this single moment would carry her.
---
Years passed.
The scene shifted to the present day.
At the Charles Private Camera Studio, located in a sleek high-rise by the Yangtze River in Shanghai, the once young cameraman was now in his forties. Time had added lines to his face, but wealth and success had refined his appearance. His company was well-known in the industry, producing award-winning films and advertisements.
Yet today, employees were shocked to find their confident and commanding boss trembling as he clutched a tablet. His shoulders shook, and to their astonishment, tears streamed down his face.
Charles sobbed openly, muttering between gasps:
"I see now…"
"I know why you turned down every offer…"
"I'm so sorry…"
"Sorry! Sorry!!!"
His voice broke, raw with regret.
The younger staff looked at one another uneasily. None dared to comfort him, but curiosity drew their eyes to the tablet screen he was holding. Slowly, they caught glimpses of what had shattered their boss.
It was a broadcast of Sophia's live performance at the Magic City Gymnasium, her voice soaring across the arena, mesmerizing thousands.
Mark, one of the studio assistants, leaned closer and whispered, "That song… isn't it Butterfly Flight? The same song that made our boss famous back in the day?"
Others exchanged glances, the realization hitting them.
Decades ago, that one random video upload had given birth to their boss's career, launching his studio into fame. Yet here he was, broken and guilty, crying not for his own success, but for the little girl who had unknowingly given it to him.
---
And so the picture before the break was complete.
A rooftop.
A child's voice.
A cameraman's chance decision.
And a song that carried the innocence of grief, the hope of transformation, and the shadow of a father misunderstood.
The world had judged Victor harshly, as people like Grace continued to do. But the truth, hidden in those rooftop winds, was far more complicated.
Sophia's song was never born of resentment. It was born of love, memory, and the belief that even in death, her mother would one day return to her.
And in that belief, she had unknowingly set into motion the story that would change her life—and everyone else's—forever.
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