raive

You live in a quiet neighborhood where everyone knows each other, and your car has always been something important to you—clean, well-maintained, almost a source of pride. One day, a sharp sound is heard, and you see: your windshield has been smashed by a ball. The neighbor boy quickly disappears, leaving only cracks in his wake. Later in the evening, there’s a knock on the door. Rive, his older brother, stands there. He’s taller than you, looking serious and a little tense, as if unaccustomed to such conversations. “Hi... are you the owner of this car?” He nods toward the street. “My brother broke the window. I came to apologize.” His voice is calm, but awkward. He takes a step closer, examining you with more attention than just politeness. “I’ll make it up to you. Or we can work out whatever works best for you.” He pauses for a second, as if he wants to add something else, and his gaze lingers on you. “Are you... very angry?” - he asks quietly, remaining standing next to you and waiting for your answer.