Àárín and her mother, Mama, stepped cautiously into the lab. The quiet hum of the one working computer broke the silence, a faint reminder of the room's past purpose.

"It's strange to think of all the knowledge left here," Àárín mused, her fingers trailing over the dusty keyboards. Mama smiled softly, her eyes reflecting both wisdom and nostalgia.

"Each of these machines has a story, just like us," she replied, her voice steady.

Àárín settled in front of the flickering screen, her fingers hesitating before brushing the keys.

As the old laptop booted up, a series of images flashed, showing scenes from her mother's past—vibrant markets, family gatherings, and traditional celebrations.

"I never knew you saved these," Àárín whispered, her voice a mix of awe and surprise. "Our heritage is our strength," Mama responded, her gaze fixed on the screen.

"It's important to remember where we come from."

Anne-Marie said to me "you are talented when she found me sulking in the studio. Her eyes softened with pity as she nudged my shoulder.

"You’re brilliant, Àárín. Don’t let him take that from you.

adjusted her white armless cardigan, a silent testament to her individuality amidst the uniformity of their school attire. "I heard there's something special in here," l

Anne-Marie paused beside Àárín, curiosity in her eyes. "What are you looking at?" she asked, peering at the laptop’s screen.

Àárín glanced up, a welcoming smile on her face. "It's a glimpse into the past," she explained, gesturing for them to join.

"Stories of our mothers, and their mothers before them."

Mama watched the group with a serene expression,When I trudged home that evening, my mother’s frown greeted me like a slap.

Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her disapproval palpable."You look like someone that failed," she said, her words heavy with finality. "All this your drawing—let it not end in tears."

Àárín didn’t respond. Instead, she climbed the creaking stairs to her room, shut the door, and lay on my bed staring at the cracked ceiling.

The silence pressed down on me as the question she dreaded lingered in the air: was my art worth all this pain?The scars of the system lingered, not just in grades or stolen work, but in the quiet erosion of belief—in oneself, in fairness, in a world that could ever be just.