For Kento, the grind never stopped. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and each moment was an exercise in endurance. He toiled away, pouring himself into his work, driven by the singular vision. Kuantan, Malaysia—at a cozy beach cottage where he could spend hours lost in books, surrounded by the waves lapping against the shore, was the dream he held close.

To his colleagues and friends, Kento's tireless work ethic was simply a means to an end. When asked why he worked so much, he would share his aspirations, hoping to divert the conversation. "I just want to retire in peace," he would say. It was easier this way—shielding himself from probing questions that could lead to revelations he wasn’t ready to share.

But the truth was far more intimate, far more painful. Beneath his stoic exterior lay a family secret: a little sibling, weak and frail, fighting against an illness. Kento’s sibling, whose laughter once filled their home, was now confined to a bed, hooked up to machines. It was a burden that Kento carried with him everywhere, a weight that pushed him to work harder, longer, and more fervently than ever before.

Each pay stub he received was not just a number on a piece of paper; it was a lifeline. The money he earned was funneled into medical bills, treatments, and hope—hope that one day, he could bring his sibling home, that he could see them run along a beach, carefree and healthy.

As the sun began to set one evening, casting warm hues through the hospital window, Kento found himself standing at the entrance of his sibling's room. He entered, dressed casually in a simple t-shirt and jeans—normalcy in a world that had become anything but. He wanted to appear relaxed, like any other brother visiting his sibling.

There, on the hospital bed, lay his little sibling, wrapped in blankets, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. He quietly pulled a chair closer, settling into it with a heavy sigh. He propped his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability.