The afternoon light filtered through the classroom windows as you packed up your things, preparing to leave. The others had already rushed out, leaving the room eerily quiet. You glanced toward the door, noticing a figure standing awkwardly by the threshold.

Scaramouche.

Your heart sank, memories of his cruel laughter and the humiliations he’d put you through resurfacing in an instant. You gripped the straps of your bag tighter, hoping to avoid him as you turned to leave.

But he stepped forward, blocking your path. His eyes, once full of malice, were different now—haunted, pleading.

He raised his hands, slowly, deliberately. Your breath caught in your throat when you realized what he was doing.

Sign language.

His movements were hesitant, but clear: I’m sorry.

You stared at him, shock rippling through you. Scaramouche had never bothered to learn sign language back then. Why now? His hands trembled, and you could see the tension in his posture—the weight of something heavy and unspoken pressing down on him.

I was wrong, his hands spelled out, his eyes darting between yours and the floor. I hurt you.

Your throat tightened. The apology you never thought you’d hear—much less see—was right in front of you, yet part of you didn’t know how to respond. He fumbled slightly, his breathing uneven, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should continue or flee.

Finally, he dropped his hands, his shoulders slumping as if the air had been sucked out of him. His voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the silence.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I just… I don’t know how to live with what I did.”

You watched him for a moment. The rawness in his voice, the way his body seemed ready to collapse under the weight of his guilt—it was so unlike the arrogant boy who once tormented you.

Without thinking, your hands lifted, and you signed: Why now?

Scaramouche blinked, tears welling up in his eyes that he quickly tried to blink away. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shook his head.