Chapter 189| What Susan Built

Susan’s invitation arrived through unusually formal channels, considering how casual their recent visits had become, and Allen found himself, reading the carefully worded request, genuinely curious about whatever occasion warranted such deliberate ceremony.

"She wants us to attend a dedication," Myria said, reviewing the accompanying details. "A scholarship fund, apparently. Newly established, aimed at supporting young Hunters from disadvantaged backgrounds pursuing proper training."

"That sounds familiar," Allen said, something warm settling in his chest.

"She named it after Haruki," Myria added quietly, and Allen felt his breath catch at the observation, old grief resurfacing alongside genuine, considerable surprise.

They attended the modest ceremony a week later, held in a considerably smaller venue than the family’s usual, prominent gatherings, and Allen found Susan waiting near the entrance, her own composed exterior carrying visible, uncharacteristic nervousness as she greeted them.

"I wanted to do something," she explained, before Allen could properly ask. "After everything we learned, after watching your own considerable Tanaka Fund grow into something genuinely meaningful, I felt I needed to contribute something of my own. Not to compete with what you’ve already built. Simply to add to it."

"This is considerable," Allen said, studying the modest but genuine gathering, several young Hunters and their families mingling near a small, dedicated plaque bearing Haruki’s name alongside a brief, heartfelt description of his own final, selfless choice.

"I consulted his mother before finalizing anything," Susan admitted. "I wanted to be certain this honored him properly, rather than simply serving my own need to make amends."

"What did she say?" Allen asked.

"She cried," Susan said quietly. "Then she thanked me, and told me it meant more than she could properly express, watching people who’d never even met her son continue fighting to make sure his death mattered."

Allen studied his mother, recognizing genuine, considerable emotion behind her careful, measured account, and felt something in his own chest ease at the sight of it — proof, finally, that Susan’s own halting reconciliation had grown into something considerably more substantial than simple, careful gestures.

"I’m proud of you," he said, the words settling with unexpected, genuine weight.

Susan’s composed exterior finally, visibly cracked, tears gathering despite her evident effort to maintain her usual, careful control. "I don’t think anyone’s said that to me in considerably longer than I care to admit," she said softly. "Thank you, Allen. That means more than this entire scholarship fund, honestly."

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The ceremony proceeded with quiet, genuine warmth, several scholarship recipients sharing brief, heartfelt words about what the opportunity meant to their own considerable, difficult journeys, and Allen found himself, watching the gathering’s modest but sincere celebration, deeply moved by exactly how much good had grown from such devastating, painful loss.

"He’d have liked this," Irene said quietly, joining Allen near the plaque. "Watching other underdogs get the chance he almost didn’t have himself."

"He would have," Allen agreed. "I think he’d have found some way to make it about them, rather than himself, too. That was always his particular gift."

A young recipient approached them shyly a while later, a girl no older than sixteen, her own considerable nerves evident despite the ceremony’s warm, welcoming atmosphere. "Are you really Allen Veton?" she asked. "I read about you in a school project. About the tournament, and the Tanaka Fund, and everything you built in Hegeville."

"I am," Allen said, offering a warm, genuine smile.

"I want to be like you someday," she admitted. "Not the powerful part. The part where you never forgot where you came from."

Allen felt something in his chest ache with quiet, considerable emotion at the observation, recognizing in her earnest, hopeful words the same fierce determination he remembered from his own earliest, most uncertain days. "You already sound like you’re on the right path," he said. "Don’t let anyone talk you out of it."

She beamed, delighted, and hurried back toward her own gathered family, and Allen watched her go with fresh, genuine hope settling alongside everything else this modest, meaningful ceremony had already offered.

They stayed until the ceremony’s natural conclusion, and Allen found Susan once more before they departed, her own earlier composure restored, though something warmer and more genuine remained visible beneath its careful surface.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "It meant a great deal, having you here."

"Thank you for building this," Allen said. "For honoring him properly."

Susan studied him a long moment, something searching and hopeful in her expression. "Do you think," she said slowly, "that we might actually manage to become something like a real family, eventually? Not perfect. Just genuinely, considerably better than what we were?"

"I think we already are," Allen said honestly. "Some days it’s harder to see than others. But I think we’re already there, more than either of us probably expected, this time last year."

Susan’s answering smile carried genuine, unguarded warmth, and Allen departed that evening with a fresh measure of hope settling alongside everything else this remarkable year had already taught him about exactly how far patient, genuine effort could carry even the most fractured, unlikely reconciliation.

Myria fell into step beside him as they made their way toward the transport, her own quiet, considered expression carrying visible warmth. "That went considerably better than I expected," she admitted.

"Better than I expected too," Allen said. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop with Susan, honestly. Old habits."

"That’s understandable," Myria said gently. "You spent most of your life learning not to trust her intentions. That kind of caution doesn’t disappear overnight, even when the evidence keeps pointing toward genuine change."

"Do you trust her?" Allen asked.

Myria considered the question seriously before answering. "More than I did a year ago," she said. "Not completely, not yet. But considerably more, and growing. I think that’s probably the healthiest way to hold it, honestly. Trust that grows with evidence, rather than trust granted all at once and then anxiously guarded."

Allen let the observation settle, drawing quiet comfort from her steady, practical wisdom, and together they climbed into the waiting transport, Susan’s own considerable, hard-won transformation settling into place alongside everything else this extraordinary year had already, so patiently, taught them about the many different shapes genuine change could take.