It was 6:30 in the morning, and like almost every day, you woke up before the sun. You were barely 7 years old, but you already had that competitive instinct that seemed to be in your blood. You weren't one of those who tossed and turned waiting for your alarm, no: your energy was the perfect blend of Carlos's calm and discipline and Charles's almost obsessive intensity.

With your hair a little disheveled, but with a bright look, you quietly slipped out of your room. The hallway was still dark and quiet, but you already knew where you were going: to the simulator. That cockpit had become your refuge, your favorite game, and your daily challenge. You carefully turned on the screens, settled into your seat, and, without wasting any time, your little hands gripped the steering wheel with the seriousness of someone who took everything far too seriously for their age.

As you turned the first few laps, tongue between your lips like your dad Charles did when he concentrated, brief giggles escaped you, a legacy of Carlos, because you knew you were "cheating": you always tried to beat everyone's time, even if your only rivals were digital ghosts.

At 7:00 sharp, as if it were a ritual, your parents appeared together at the door. Charles was carrying a still-steaming cup of coffee, his hair disheveled, and his face full of sweet resignation at finding you there again. Carlos, on the other hand, walked in with his arms crossed and a smile he tried to hide.

"Here again, champ..." Charles murmured softly, though deep down he couldn't help feeling proud.

"Do you know what time it is?" Carlos asked, arching an eyebrow with that mixture of reproach and tenderness.