The silence in the kitchen was broken only by the clinking of cutlery. Following Juglian's confession the previous night, the air was dense with unspoken words. Near, sitting at the table, wore an indecipherable expression. Sofia watched him with a mixture of curiosity and a strong, inexplicable urge to take care of him. It was a maternal feeling that caught her off guard—a deep instinct she had never felt before.
It was Juglian who broke the silence. "Near... why are you here? After all this time..." His voice was low, hoarse with restrained emotion.
Near looked up. His large, dark eyes settled on Juglian. "I am here for you, father." The word "father" was not an accusation but a simple statement, full of a profound respect that disarmed Juglian. "I never hated you," Near continued, his voice now clear and serene. "I never could have. You are the only person who ever gave me an idea of what it meant to have a future."
Juglian felt his heart tighten.
Near stood up and walked toward the window, looking out at the garden with an air of deep concentration, as if analyzing every blade of grass. His mind—a labyrinth of logic and numbers—functioned differently from everyone else's.
Near was a British child, abandoned shortly after birth in an orphanage that felt more like a laboratory than a home. He never had parents or a real name. He was simply "the boy," a prodigy with an intelligence bordering on madness. At the age of twelve, his IQ had been tested at 248—a number that brought him unwanted attention and isolation. His only friends were books and his own mind, which constructed intricate castles of logic and complex strategies. He had completely white hair, a sign of a rare genetic condition, giving him an almost spectral, ethereal appearance.
One day, the orphanage was visited by an imposing figure: Juglian. Not the Juglian of today, but the "King of Football," tired and disillusioned, attending a charity event. Near, hidden in a corner, had observed him. He saw in him not just an athlete, but a tormented man. His mind analyzed every movement, every expression. Juglian, unlike everyone else, had looked him in the eye without fear or admiration, but with a deep and unexpected empathy. In that brief encounter, Juglian chose him for adoption. Despite Juglian's subsequent departure, that short moment remained the only true "connection" in Near's life. A few days later, with money donated by the orphanage, Near bought some hair dye. He dyed the bottom half of his hair a dark blonde—the same color as Juglian's. A sign, a tribute, a way to carry with him the only father figure he had ever known.
Returning to the present, Near turned toward Juglian, his brown eyes full of unwavering gratitude. "I understood why you left," he said, his voice devoid of any resentment. "You couldn't give me what you didn't have. You couldn't give me a family or a future because you hadn't found them for yourself yet. But what you did give me was more important than everything else."
He approached Juglian. "You gave me hope. You showed me that the world wasn't just a logic problem to be solved. You gave me a reason to think there might be a place for me. I never hated you. I admired you. You were a lighthouse for me—my King."
Juglian could not hold back his tears. Near's words, so honest and direct, hit him harder than any accusation. He felt relieved of a weight he had carried for ten years.
Then, Near approached Sofia. "And you," he told her, with an expression of deep respect, "you are the person who gave my father what he couldn't find. You are his future. His happiness. Thank you for taking care of him."
Sofia, hearing those words, felt tears sting her eyes. In that moment, her urge to protect him transformed into genuine affection. "I'm happy you're here, Near," she whispered. "You will always be welcome."
In the afternoon, N and Juglian played chess. The game was a dance of strategy and logic. Juglian, with his experience, was a master. But N, with his intelligence, was a genius. "Seven," N murmured, and a shadow of a smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes—appeared on his sharp face. "Seven moves in less than an hour. And the game is yours."
Juglian smiled, and his heart filled with a happiness that went beyond logic. "You are a genius," he whispered, his eyes pools of infinite tenderness.
In the evening, Near prepared to leave. The goodbye was brief and full of contained emotion. He clung to Juglian and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Thank you, father," he murmured, his voice a whisper of pain. "Thank you for giving me hope." He then embraced Sofia and kissed her cheek. "Thank you, mom," he whispered. "Thank you for giving me a future."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the light of the sunset. Juglian and Sofia remained on the threshold, hand in hand, watching him go. His heart, once a black hole consuming him, was now a lighthouse illuminating an infinity of hope. His family—his true family—was there, having finally faced and overcome his past.