Author Notes: Hello all, hope everything goes well over there! Before reading, please let me make you guys aware that English is not my native language, however, I decided to start this personal project with two goals in mind: 1. Improve my knowledge of English. 2. To share with all of you who enjoy reading YGO fanfics.
Thank you very much to feer_katth for helping me in this journey and with the grammar corrections. And thank you very much to all of you who decides to give an opportunity to this history!
The steady passing of the years, the ordinariness they brought with them, and, above all, habits, gave a certain uniformity to the numbers on the calendar, always on the desk. Seto became accustomed to viewing them with the same interest with which he viewed the figures in the financial statements: for the sole purpose of confirming that everything was under his control. The dates that were really important for him, he did not need to mark them with a red circle or even the closeness of the calendar to point them: first, Mokuba's birthday, second, the day Gozaburo Kaiba had passed away, as the reminder of his ultimate victory against the most dangerous game of chance: fate. It is for this reason, because he believed himself to be the winner in the vagaries of fate because no one assigned him any fate but, rather, it was he who decided which one was his that day, that his concept of chance ended up being disfigured.
Gozaburo's death proved that such conceptions as of "chance" and "destiny", were nothing more than futile excuses in the mouths of those who sought meaning in their actions to avoid facing their own empty existence. So now in the young leader, there was never any disposition to believe in the fortuitous, in the adventitious, in what happens without a string of events behind it.
There was only a verifiable cause-and-effect relationship with the string of good or bad decisions. Obedient to that philosophy he had ruled his life and, until the present April seventeenth, he never had any reason to be concerned.
April seventeenth ceased to be a cold number in his calendar, that April seventeenth he wanted a guilty and, as preached by those whom with scabies he defined as seekers of meaning to an empty existence, the only ones on the list were "chance" or "destiny". And although he had no reason to blame them because he never believed in them from the beginning, because he had already defeated them once and defeat was inconceivable in his face, Seto wanted to claim them, to have someone to place a guilt that the return of an unbearable pain prevented him from recognizing as his alone.
For the first time, he lived in their shoes, in the shoes of those who were searching for meaning in an existence that had been empty since the doctor left the hospital room with the final sentence.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Kaiba, but little Mokuba has passed away".