When the Story Continues (Sequel to When the Script Changes)

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of laughter, sleepless nights, milestones, and an endless amount of love.

Freen and Becky had been through it all.

The teething stage, the first steps, the first words, the stubborn tantrums, the scraped knees.

They had taken care of Pin when she had fallen ill, had soothed her tears, had held her close through every fever and nightmare.

And now—

Now their little girl wasn't so little anymore.

She had grown into the sweetest, quietest, most studious teenager they had ever known.

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Pin was nothing like Mon had been at her age.

Where Mon had been bright and bubbly, eager to meet people and make friends, Pin was reserved and soft-spoken.

She was the kind of girl who loved being unnoticed.

She preferred books over people, the quiet corners of the library over noisy hallways, and the gentle comfort of routine over unpredictable chaos.

And Freen and Becky adored her exactly as she was.

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One of the hardest moments of their lives had been when Pin had gotten seriously sick as a child.

It had started with a cough.

Then a fever.

Then suddenly—

She wouldn't wake up properly.

Becky had panicked first, hands shaking as she pressed a palm to Pin's forehead.

Freen had been the one to rush them to the hospital, face stone-cold but eyes filled with silent terror.

It had been days of IV drips, whispered prayers, and restless nights spent sitting by her hospital bed.

Mon had been in college at the time, but the moment she had found out, she had booked the first flight home, Sam right beside her, just as worried.

Pin had been so small, so fragile, barely speaking, barely eating.

And Becky had broken.

"I just want her to be okay," she had whispered to Freen one night, voice thick with tears.

Freen had held her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. "She will be. She's strong."

And she had been.

After weeks of care, medicine, and more love than the world could ever hold—

Pin pulled through.

And when she had finally woken up fully, her fever broken, her strength slowly returning, Becky had cried into Freen's shoulder, relief pouring out of her in waves.

Mon had hugged her so tight it almost hurt, whispering, "Never scare us like that again, okay?"

Pin, still weak but smiling softly, had nodded.

And from that day forward—

Her quiet strength had never faded.

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When Pin was old enough to start school, Freen and Becky had worried.

She wasn't like Mon, who had run straight into the classroom, eager to make friends.

Pin had been hesitant.

Reserved.

She had held onto Freen's hand a little tighter, had clung to Becky's sleeve for just a second longer.

"You okay, baby?" Becky had asked gently, crouching to meet her eyes.

Pin had nodded, but her fingers had twisted nervously around the strap of her backpack.

Freen had crouched down too, brushing a gentle hand over her hair.

"You don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to," she had assured her. "Just do what makes you comfortable, okay?"

Pin had blinked up at them.

Then, slowly, she had nodded again.

And then—

She had walked into the classroom, quiet but determined.

By the end of the day, she had made a few friends.

Not a lot.

But enough.

And that had been more than enough for them.

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Now, at 15 years old, Pin had grown into the gentlest, most studious high schooler anyone had ever met.

She had never been interested in popularity or social events.

She never liked attention or loud crowds.

Instead, she spent her days in the library, surrounded by books and knowledge, completely at peace.

She loved history, science, literature, and philosophy.

She read everything she could get her hands on—old poetry, classic novels, scientific journals, even Becky's old law books.

She was sharp, intelligent, thoughtful, always absorbing the world in quiet wonder.

But despite her quiet nature—

She was loved.

The teachers adored her.

Her classmates respected her.

Her family cherished her.

She had a few close friends, the kind that understood her need for quiet, the kind that never pressured her to be someone she wasn't.

And for Pin—

That was all she had ever needed.

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One evening, after dinner, Freen and Becky watched as Pin curled up on the couch, a book in her hands, a peaceful expression on her face.

Mon, sat beside her, gently playing with her hair, as she used to do when Pin was little.

Sam was there too, leaning against the armrest, watching with a small smile.

Freen and Becky exchanged a glance.

"She's all grown up," Becky murmured, eyes soft.

Freen exhaled slowly. "Yeah."

"She's so different from Mon."

"She is," Freen agreed. Then, after a pause, she added, "But she's perfect just the way she is."

Becky smiled.

Because she was.

Their quiet, thoughtful, book-loving daughter.

Their sweet, studious, beautifully unique child.

And as they sat there, surrounded by family, love, and warmth, Freen and Becky knew—

They wouldn't change a single thing.