prologue

Apartment, New York.

2005

Listening to the sound of rain tapping against the roof, Laerte pulled the blanket over himself.

He had been sitting in the armchair for quite some time. He had lost count of how many hours he'd spent there, warmed by the fireplace. The flames danced within it, spreading warmth to everything around.

He stretched out his hand, reaching for the wooden shelf beside him, and grabbed his phone.

Even in the reflected heat, the phone felt cold. Sliding it out from under the blanket, he turned it on.

The light from the screen lit up his face, blending with the faint glow of the fireplace. He squinted at the time.

Eight-thirty.

Yawning briefly, Laerte tossed the blanket aside and stood up from the armchair. His body was tired, his instincts urging him to sit back down and let sleep carry him to the world of dreams.

But he resisted. Walking confidently, he fought against the lethargy gripping his body.

He slid the phone into the pocket of his shorts and picked up a Sony Walkman straight from the nineties, also from the shelf. Slinging the strap over his neck, securing it around the back of his head, he placed the headphones on his ears.

He pressed the power button on the right side of the Walkman for about three seconds, turning it on. Pocketing the device, he walked down the hallway, listening to Immigrant Song by the rock band Led Zeppelin.

His footsteps were muffled by the sound of rain as he moved toward the kitchen.

He reached the refrigerator and opened it slowly, stopping when he noticed a note stuck to it.

Dad's going to be late tonight.

Laerte read the note before tossing it into the trash bin nearby. Opening the fridge, he stood still, gazing at its contents. His amber eyes scanned over drinks and energy drinks until he grabbed a jar of dulce de leche and a bottle of milk from the bottom shelf.

He shook the milk bottle, listening to the liquid slosh inside.

Smiling, Laerte walked to the counter. Placing the items on it, he grabbed a bread bag that held only two slices.

He tossed the empty bag into the trash, which was nearly full. Opening a drawer below the counter, he pulled out a butter knife and set it on the countertop.

Laying the two slices of bread side by side, he scooped out a generous amount of dulce de leche with the knife, spreading it thickly over both slices.

He brought one slice to his lips and took a bite, the smooth, caramelized flavor spreading throughout his mouth.

He continued eating, washing it down with the milk. The routine went on for a while. When he finished his late-night snack, he tossed the empty milk carton into the trash and returned the dulce de leche jar to the fridge.

The kitchen was at the end of a hallway that led to the apartment entrance. As he stepped back into the corridor, his gaze fell to the floor near the door, where two letters lay scattered on the welcome mat.

Laerte crouched down to pick them up, deciding to read them back in his armchair.

Returning to the living room, he sat down just as Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede began to play, relaxing his body to the rhythm of the music.

Then he looked at the two letters in his hands.

The first was the overdue rent bill. Laerte's hands trembled as he held it, knowing his father was working himself to the bone to keep up with the payments.

Laerte silently promised himself that he would repay his father's hard work someday. It was a vow.

He opened the other letter, his heart skipping a beat when he saw what was written on it.

Yancy Academy.

The moment his eyes landed on the letter, the fireplace flames flared, illuminating the entire apartment.

He swallowed hard as dozens of thoughts raced through his mind. With trembling lips, Laerte opened the envelope.

He began reading as if the weight of the world rested in his hands. Each sentence made his heart race faster with anticipation.

"Please let me be accepted," he whispered to himself, his heart pounding.

When he finished reading, his body felt lighter, and he was filled with joy and excitement. He couldn't contain himself.

"I got in!" he shouted, stretching his arms upward in pure happiness, only to remember that his dad wouldn't be home anytime soon to celebrate with him.

Even so, he couldn't suppress his smile, a single tear sliding down his left cheek.

It was true that Yancy Academy was a private boarding school where most of the students came from wealthy families, but it was his last chance to secure a decent academic future.

Getting expelled for the seventh time was not an option.

Not that Laerte was a troublemaker—it was more that he was incredibly unlucky. In fourth grade, he had accidentally set the principal's office on fire.

How? It just happened. But he could swear the flames had mirrored his emotions.

Standing up, Laerte left the letters on the shelf, grabbed his blanket, and forced his feet to carry him to his bedroom. He turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door, stepping inside.

His room was simple: a bed on the right side, a wardrobe in the opposite corner, and at the back, a desk cluttered with notebooks and scattered papers.

Throwing himself onto the bed, he buried his face in the pillow, letting the music flow through his ears. He turned over, now staring at the white ceiling.

"Will I have a normal year?" he asked aloud.

Laerte remained in that position for a long time, not moving a muscle, letting the music transport him.

With each note of the melody, his body relaxed further, his eyes grew heavier, and finally, he drifted off into the world of dreams.