第80章　卒業式の朝

On the morning of my graduation, I sat on my bedroom floor and tried to recall every important moment of the past four years. Some memories were so precious I had almost forgotten how to hold them.

My mother knocked once and gave me a long embrace. I felt grateful in a way I could not yet describe — as though I were saying goodbye to a part of myself. At the ceremony, the headmaster's speech began to honor each graduate by name. His voice was noble and unhurried, and he reminded us of the small dreams we once dared to celebrate.

To achieve so much in only four short years had not always seemed possible. I paused to reflect on how often I had nearly let my ambitions fade into ordinary noise. Across the auditorium, I caught my friend's eye. He whispered something gentle; we exchanged a small smile that we will both cherish for many years to come. I did not pretend the day was easy. There was a quiet sigh in every farewell, and at lunch I needed a long pause before I could speak about the future at all. Yet a kind of genuine joy was also aroused. I had dedicated long nights to my studies; today's calm celebration was a remarkable, simple reward.

When the gowns came off and the cameras were put away, my classmates and I scattered. We will carry, each in our own way, the noble honor of having tried our best. Graduation, in the end, is only one quiet beginning of a long, still-unwritten life.