As weekends rolled by, what was meant to be a one-time arrangement gradually became a routine.
Almost every weekend now, Mary Jane could be seen at the Urara household, tutoring the restless little bundle of energy.
Unlike their chaotic first session, however, Mary had found her loophole—a simple, effective way to tame that pink imp's boundless spirit.
"Answer this question," Mary commanded flatly, her finger tapping on the page of Urara's homework as they sat together on the field bench.
Urara groaned loudly, tugging at her hair. "I don't know!" she wailed, her voice echoing across the open field.
"Fine," Mary said calmly, flipping to another page. "Another lap removed from today."
"Ehhhhh?!" Urara's ears shot up, and her tail wilted. "Please, Mary-chan! Urara promises she'll study harder next time!"
Mary exhaled through her nose, glancing at her in disbelief. "I already told you to study beforehand, remember?"
"Mary-chan is mean!" Urara puffed her cheeks, arms crossed in protest.
"Oi…" Mary growled, her patience tested. Still, she turned another page, pointing to a problem simple enough even Urara couldn't wiggle away from.
"How about this one? What's five multiplied by two?"
Urara froze for a second, then her eyes widened. She knew this one! Better yet, this was her golden chance. She could finally break free from the suffocating study session and get back to running.
"Urara knows this one!" she announced proudly. "It's ten!"
And without a shred of hesitation, she leapt from the bench, already charging toward the field.
But her clumsiness betrayed her.
Her foot slipped on the uneven dirt, and with a loud thump, Urara faceplanted into the mud before she could even sprint.
Mary startled and rose to her feet, ready to assist, but then watched as Urara groaned, pushed herself up, and dusted clumps of dirt from her hair and tracksuit.
Despite the graceless fall, her spirit didn't falter for even a second. She stood again, fists clenched, determination blazing.
That sight jolted something inside Mary. Before she realized it, a small sound slipped from her lips—
A chuckle?
Did Mary just chuckle?
It was soft, quick, almost timid, but real.
Urara's ears perked, catching the unfamiliar sound. Her head snapped back toward the bench, eyes wide with wonder.
And there it was—Mary Jane, her cold façade cracked open, her lips curled into a fleeting smile. For the first time, Urara had witnessed it.
Her heart skipped. Her tail wagged uncontrollably.
Mary, realizing she had slipped, immediately looked away, cheeks heating as she forced her expression back into its usual stern mask.
"What are you looking at? Don't you have a lap to run?" she snapped, despite quivering underneath.
Urara only grinned brighter. In that instant, she decided—running was fun, but maybe… just maybe… she wanted something else, too.
She wanted to see Mary smile again.
As rare as a hen's tooth, as precious as sunlight breaking through winter's frost, Mary Jane's chuckle had planted a new goal in Urara's heart.
Urara, having discovered Mary's rare chuckle, decided she had to find a way to hear it again.
So, pretending nothing had happened, she crouched into a running stance. But just before taking off, she deliberately tripped, sprawling onto the ground in an exaggerated heap.
And it worked.
Another chuckle slipped out of Mary.
Urara turned her head, peeking back, and sure enough—there was Mary Jane, one hand to her lips, trying to stifle it, but unable to stop herself.
Without reason, without logic, Mary found Urara's clumsy antics funny.
For Urara, that alone was enough to make her heart feel warm. Seeing Mary laugh—even for a moment—was like catching a glimpse of sunshine behind storm clouds.
Perhaps it was nice for a change to see Mary's stern and serious mask break.
And so their day went on. Urara continued her "training" in the form of deliberate pratfalls—tripping, stumbling, even rolling dramatically in the dirt—all for the simple reward of Mary's chuckles.
Each time, Mary would mutter something like "Idiot…" or "Why are you like this…" but her laughter betrayed her scolding.
By the time the sky turned dark, the field resonated not only with Urara's clumsy falls, but with laughter—laughter that Mary hadn't realized she had missed in her own life.
That night, Mary returned home later than usual. Unlike weekdays, the weekends were supposed to be her rest days, as her school-assigned coach had often said:
"Sometimes rest is just as important as training. Without it, one may burn out before realizing why they run at all, leading only to ruin."
But her father had always dismissed that idea. To him, "A day without training is a day wasted."
As she stood at her doorstep, Mary clutched her chest, guilt gnawing at her. She had promised herself she would keep training, yet she had spent nearly the whole day tutoring—no, laughing—with Urara. A secret she hadn't dared to confess to her father.
Taking a deep breath, she quietly opened the door. "I'm home," she said faintly, almost hoping to go unnoticed.
But her father was still in the living room, the glow of the television illuminating his face. He was still encapsulated in those pre-recorded races.
But the sound of Mary's return betrayed her silence.
"Where have you been?" He demanded.
Mary flinched at his voice but quickly composed herself. "…Training, like father requested."
The room went silent. Then, with the flick of his wrist, he raised the remote and paused the race. The sudden stillness made the air suffocating as he turned toward her.
"Come here," he said.
Mary startled, wanting to protest as she didn't want to be anywhere closer to her father...
But her father's authority was frightening, too frightening that the mere thought of protest could send her shivering.
So... she obeyed nonetheless.
Once she approached. "Sit," her father commanded again, patting the space beside him on the couch.
And once more, she obeyed.
As she sat beside him, her father reached out, stroking her hair in a way that looked gentle but felt like ownership.
His voice softened, almost sweet, but doctored with something darker.
"You don't have to be scared of me," he murmured. "You know your father loves you. Everything I do—it's so you can be better than anyone else. So you can win. Isn't that what you want? To be superior, to stand above the rest?"
At first, his hand moved in slow, tender motions. But soon the strokes grew rougher, snappier as his words rose in pitch.
"One day you'll understand! The world tramples the weak but bows to the strong! Respect them! Honor them! Bring glory to their plate!"
Without warning, he snatched Mary's shoulders and shook her, rattling her frail frame as his tirade boiled over.
"Soon, Mary! Soon SHE'll see that I'm right! Those failures at Tracen weren't my fault! It was their weakness! Their incompetence led to their inability to prevail! But you—" his grip tightened, "—you are my proof! My truth! The very source of competence came from earlier grounding, not those late-blooming, failure-to-nurture excuses! After all, you are my perfection!"
Her small body trembled under his force, her teeth chattering from the violent shaking. "I-It… hurts…" Mary whimpered, wincing as tears welled in her eyes.
For a moment, his fury froze at the sight of her frailty. Then, as though disgusted by her weakness, his face twisted into disappointment.
With a shove, he released her, letting her stumble onto the couch cushion.
"Pathetic," he muttered, averting his gaze. "Grab your dinner and go to your room."
His attention snapped back to the television, the glow of galloping Umamusume filling the silence.
Quietly, Mary stood. Her knees still wobbled, her eyes blurred, but she forced herself to the kitchen. She picked up the meal left waiting for her, clutching it tightly in her small hands.
Then, without a word, she slipped away to her room. Her steps were brisk but careful, as if the slightest sound might draw his wrath again.
Behind her, the muffled roar of the race replayed, her father's world continuing as if she were just another shadow passing through it.
And Mary, holding her dinner close to her chest, only wanted to escape.