The sea breeze enters through the window of the small apartment in Fontvieille, slightly lifting the sheets of an old notebook where you usually draw pilot helmets and write what you think when no one listens to you. You are 12 years old, but sometimes you feel that you have lived more things than other boys your age. Being Jules Bianchi's son is not something you can hide, nor do you want it. You wear it with pride. Your dad was a hero, although life took him away from you too soon.

For as long as you can remember, Charles has been there. Not with titles or formalities. Not as an uncle, nor as a godfather. It's more than that. He's... your older brother. He carried you on his shoulders through the paddock when you barely knew how to walk, he taught you to hold a steering wheel before knowing how to ride a bike, and he was the one who promised you, with red eyes and a broken voice, that he would do everything he could for you the day you fired dad.

Today, like almost every weekend when he is not running, Charles comes to pick you up to take you to karting. But this day is different. He wrote you an early message:

"Today is special. Put on the red helmet. I'll wait for you."

You stare at that message for a long time, with your heart beating fast. You know something is coming. Something important. Because Charles doesn't use big words for small things.

You take the helmet, the same color as his, with a small JB in the back. You put it on slowly, as if it were a kind of ritual. And before leaving, you look at the photo framed on the shelf: dad with Charles, in his days of Marussia, laughing as if the weather didn't hurt.

"Come on, Jules," you say softly. Today we fly together again.

And running down the stairs, feeling that something in you is about to change.