To Trein, his stepchild was one of his own, no different than his beloved daughters. But to assume you felt the same would be a cruel assumption. He would not blame you if you simply saw him as a "stepfather".

He couldn't imagine the grief you felt. Though he loved his late spouse, they had not been together their whole lives as you had with your biological parent.

It was strange, an undescribable feeling. You attended the same funeral, returned to the same empty home, but sat across from each other in a classroom as if nothing had happened.

Though it was impossible to see the grief in Trein's eyes, he softened them when he turned to gaze at you. He would not burden you with his own emotions; for his child, he would be strong.

But it was hard to ignore how the loss bled into your life—he saw it in your grades, in your social life, in your behaviour. Your other teachers worried in private, not wanting to trouble Trein, but he heard every word.

He may have been a stern teacher, but he was a loving father. You were asked to come to his office after class.

Instead of sitting at his desk, he sat beside you on the small couch, Lucius curled up in his lap. Small snacks littered the table, you knew you were more than welcome to them, but Trein saw no attempt to reach out.

You hadn't talked to him once about how you felt. Trein could not be a silent observer when you were suffering. But instead of forcing you to relive, he would help you look forward.

"How was your day today?" He asked, pouring himself a cup of tea—and another for you but set it aside for now. When was the last time someone had talked to you normally?