🇬🇧 Where No Heroes Come — 13 —

CHAPTER 13 The Price of Surviving The dining table is covered with papers when Urame arrives home, although this time they are not only university brochures or lists of possible degrees, but printed documents, official forms, and several notes handwritten by Estamia, who remains seated with her back straight and her gaze fixed on one of the pages while Durim stands near the kitchen holding a cup in both hands without actually drinking from it. Urame leaves his backpack beside the entrance and observes the scene for a few seconds without saying anything, immediately noticing that the atmosphere is different from their other conversations about his future. Durim does not have the excited expression he usually shows when talking about university, and Estamia does not seem to be simply reviewing expenses, but preparing to discuss something she knows may be uncomfortable. “You’re home early,” Estamia says, raising her gaze toward him with her usual tone, dry but not entirely cold. “There was nothing else to do at school,” Urame replies as he approaches the table, remaining calm when he sees Durim look away for an instant before meeting his eyes again. His uncle’s reaction tells him more than the papers. Something is wrong. Or, more accurately, there is something they do not know how to tell him. Estamia moves one of the sheets toward the center of the table and points to a section marked in pen, showing official information from the government of Zerak about financial aid for direct victims of villain attacks, with a specific section for those affected by the incident known as Horem’s Game. Urame looks at the document. He does not touch the page. He only reads. “Horem’s Game.” The words are there, printed with a neatness that does not fit what they mean, written as part of an administrative procedure, as though it were only the name of a case file and not the night when fire took away everything he had. Durim places the cup on the kitchen counter and approaches slowly, as though every step must be taken with care. “Estamia found this this morning,” he says softly, trying to explain it without making it sound like an imposition. “It is financial aid for higher education. For direct survivors of the incident.” Urame keeps his gaze on the paper while listening, without moving his hands or changing his expression, although he feels something inside him silently tense when he understands what they are suggesting. Estamia interlaces her fingers on the table and watches him carefully. “It covers a significant part of the tuition and some initial expenses if you are accepted into an accredited university. It does not cover everything, but it would help considerably.” Durim lowers his gaze toward the documents, uncomfortable, as though he wishes he could find another way to say it. “We didn’t want to bring it up so suddenly.” “You didn’t want to bring it up,” Estamia corrects him without looking at him, although her voice is not intended to hurt him. Durim sighs tiredly. “I didn’t want to make him remember something he doesn’t need to remember.” Urame raises his gaze toward them for the first time since seeing the document, looking at Durim with the calmness he always uses to reassure him and then at Estamia, who does not look away because she is waiting for a genuine reaction, even though she does not know whether she will receive one. “It’s all right,” Urame says calmly. Durim frowns slightly, as though that answer does not completely reassure him. “It isn’t, Urame. Of course it isn’t.” The silence that follows is brief, but long enough for the weight of the conversation to settle over the table. Urame looks at the papers again while clearly understanding both of their positions. Durim is thinking about the pain of opening a wound that has never fully closed, while Estamia is thinking about the numbers, the tuition, the expenses, and the simple reality of a family that can help him but cannot easily support everything on its own. They are both right. And that makes the situation more uncomfortable. Estamia slides another sheet toward him, this time containing a list of requirements, deadlines, and necessary documentation. “We cannot cover everything ourselves,” she says honestly, without trying to soften the words too much. “We can help you, and we will, but it would be irresponsible not to consider this when it exists.” Durim lowers his voice. “Estamia…” “I’m not saying anything he doesn’t already know,” she says, now looking at Durim before turning her attention back to Urame. “He is seventeen years old. He is not a small child. He is going to university, and he needs to know how it will be paid for.” Urame listens without reacting outwardly, although inside, something moves with an uncomfortable clarity. He knows Estamia does not say it out of cruelty, but because of her way of understanding care as something practical, almost harsh, something that does not embrace but supports. He sits down in front of the documents and takes the first sheet between his fingers, reading the official heading again while his mind inevitably returns to that night, to the smoke, the screams, and the moment when no one arrived in time. The government did not arrive. The heroes did not arrive. No one arrived. But now there is financial aid. An amount. A form. Compensation. Urame feels that the idea is almost absurd, although he does not allow the thought to show on his face, because he understands perfectly what is happening. The same world that allowed the news to clean the heroes’ names and reduce everything to an unfortunate incident is now placing money on the table so the survivors can move forward. Move forward. As though that were a simple direction. As though filling out a form were enough. Durim sits beside him, resting his arms on the table. “You don’t have to decide now,” he says carefully. “We can look for other options, apply for ordinary scholarships, or postpone something if necessary.” Urame looks at his uncle and notices the guilt on his face, guilt that does not belong to him but that Durim carries anyway because he loves him, because he wishes he could have given him more, because he feels that talking about money in the middle of that memory is a form of betrayal. “It’s fine,” Urame replies calmly. Durim looks at him in surprise. “It’s fine?” Urame nods as he places the document on the table, carefully aligning it beside the other papers. “If that aid exists, we can apply for it.” Estamia keeps her gaze fixed on him, showing no immediate relief, as though she is trying to determine whether his acceptance is genuine or merely another correct answer. “Are you sure?” she asks. Urame takes a few seconds to answer, not because he doubts what he is going to say, but because he is choosing the exact way to say it. “Yes. It will not change what happened, but it can still be useful for something.” Durim lowers his gaze in pain when he hears that, perhaps because it is too mature a sentence for someone his age, or perhaps because he understands that there is something sad about using a tragedy as a tool to study. Estamia, however, nods slowly. “That is exactly what I thought.” Urame looks at her. For an instant, he understands his aunt better than ever before. Estamia does not try to make it hurt less. She does not know how. But she sees the world as something that must be faced even when it is unpleasant, and although that way of being may seem cold, Urame knows she was the one who searched for the information, reviewed the requirements, and placed the papers on the table because someone had to do it. Durim runs a hand over his face and then tries to smile, although he does not quite manage it. “Then we will do it together. There’s no need to rush.” Urame nods. “Of course.” After that, the conversation becomes more practical, with Estamia explaining the necessary documents, certificates, proof of residence, reports about the incident, and confirmation that Urame was a direct victim, while Durim writes down dates and steps in a notebook with his usual need to organize things in order to feel useful. Urame answers when they ask him questions. He says yes. He says he understands. He says he can look for some documents from school. He acts like someone taking part in an ordinary conversation about university paperwork. But inside, the idea keeps repeating. Horem’s Game will pay for his studies. The night he lost his parents will open a door. The fire that left him alone will be used to enter university. He does not know whether he should feel disgust, anger, or shame, but what he feels is something colder and clearer, a conclusion forming without making a sound. If the system wants to give him something, he will take it. If the world wants to pay for part of his future with the memory of that night, he will allow it. Not because he forgives it. Not because he accepts it. But because rejecting a useful tool out of pride would be foolish. Later, when they finish reviewing the papers, Durim gathers some of the sheets and places them inside a transparent folder, trying to handle them carefully while Estamia checks the list of requirements one last time. The conversation gradually fades, as though none of them knows exactly what to say after turning a trauma into an application. Durim looks at Urame before standing up. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly says. Urame watches him. “Why?” Durim hesitates. “For having to talk about this like this.” Urame maintains his calm expression for a few more seconds, seeing the sincere pain on his uncle’s face and understanding that, to him, the aid is not only money but also a reminder that he could not protect him from something that happened before Urame had even arrived at his home. “You don’t have to apologize,” Urame says in a serene voice. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” Durim seems as though he wants to respond, but finally he only nods, as though the sentence relieves him slightly, although not completely. Estamia, who has listened to the conversation without intervening, closes the folder with a firm gesture. “Tomorrow we will go to City Hall to request the missing certificates.” Urame nods. “All right.” The night continues with a strange calm after that. They eat dinner more quietly than usual, although Durim tries to talk about ordinary subjects so the conversation does not remain trapped in the past, mentioning university matters, possible schedules, and how long it would take Urame to travel from home if he is finally accepted into the Metropolitan University of Zerak. Urame listens and responds naturally, allowing the lighter conversation to cover what came before without erasing it, because he knows that is what Durim needs and because Estamia also finds it easier to move through practical matters than to remain in the emotional for too long. When he finally goes to his room, Urame places the folder on the desk and stares at it for a few seconds, illuminated by the lamp while the city continues making noise beyond the window. The transparent plastic reflects part of his face, mixing his image with the words printed on the documents. Direct victim. Survivor. Government aid. Horem’s Game. Urame rests his fingers on the folder without opening it, feeling how those words try to define him in a way that does not entirely belong to him. Victim. Survivor. They are correct words. But incomplete. Because no one writes in those documents about what happens afterward, when the child who survived learns to hide fire in the palm of his hand, to restrain a strength he should not possess, to move objects without touching them, and to observe the world until he understands how an image can be broken from within. Urame opens the folder and looks at the financial aid form once more, calmly reading the instructions as though it were any other administrative procedure, although every line reminds him that his future is beginning to be built upon a loss the world turned into a case file. For a few seconds, he thinks about tearing up the papers. Only a few seconds. Then he closes the folder. He does not do it. It would not be useful. And that is the difference. Before, he might have thought about what hurts. Now he thinks about what is useful. He sits at the desk and takes a clean sheet of paper, writing the name Metropolitan University of Zerak at the top and the options he wants to pursue beneath it: first marketing, then public relations, and perhaps later something related to image management or strategic communication. Everything looks normal when written that way. Like a course of study. Like a future. Like a life. But Urame knows there is something else underneath. The world that did not arrive in time is now going to finance part of the path he will use to learn its language. The language of image. The language of trust. The language of useful lies. Urame places the pen on the desk and looks toward the window, seeing his reflection in the glass while the light from the room illuminates his red hair and pink eyes, which remain calm to anyone who might see him from outside. Tomorrow, he will go to City Hall with his aunt and uncle. He will submit documents. He will sign forms. He will accept the aid. And everyone will think he is taking another step toward a normal life. Perhaps Durim needs to believe it. Perhaps Estamia prefers not to question it too deeply. Perhaps the entire world works that way. But Urame understands it differently. The price of surviving is not only staying alive. It is learning to use everything that tried to break you. Even the money. Even the memory. Even the name of the tragedy that left you alone.