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September was soon to arrive in Florida, bringing with it the beginning of many small endings... The one of highest importance for this story was the conclusion of Quentin's bachelor studies. This particular period, marked by Quentin's social isolation and emotional detachment, was about to last one more year before finally becoming a more or less happy memory.

Unlike his peers, Quentin was never one to indulge in typical college experiences. He wouldn't get drunk with classmates while playing billiards, nor would he fall asleep in the back of a bus after a night of clubbing. The pursuit of romantic relationships held no interest for him either. To be honest, his mind was consumed by a single passion: his karate training.

The driving force that motivated him was the black belt that had once belonged to his paternal uncle—a great karate master who had tragically passed away when Quentin was still a child. This precious heirloom hung in a frame on the least scratched wall of his old bedroom, a constant reminder of his aspirations to follow in his uncle’s footsteps.

This room, located in his tiny hometown in the northern part of Florida, held a special place in Quentin's heart. As a child, he would often jump on his bed, not for childish fun, but to quickly reach the black belt, marveling at its significance.

In spite of that, even when his uncle took the belt off the wall to show it to him, Quentin never dared to wear it. The leather felt heavy in his hands, its significance weighing even heavier on his mind...Even now, as an adult, he felt unworthy of its legacy. Somehow, the item had transcended its physical form to become a sacred artifact in Quentin's eyes, so revered that he almost worshipped it. More than just a piece of cloth, it represented a prophecy, a map to his future. Without this tangible goal of becoming a karate master like his uncle, Quentin would have felt completely lost in the world, adrift without purpose or direction, like many of his peers.

*

Eventually, September dawned on Quentin's reality, but it didn't paint his world with any distinct color; it remained invisible, transparent. The air hung heavy with humidity, indistinguishable from August's oppressive heat. As Quentin rushed from the dorm to the opening ceremony on campus, rivulets of sweat traced paths down his nape, a constant reminder of Florida's unrelenting climate. He despised the formal clothes he was required to wear—a crisp white shirt paired with long black trousers that seemed to trap the heat against his skin. Fortunately, he could rely on the cool sanctuary of the shadowy, air-conditioned university halls and gyms to provide some respite from the sweltering temperatures outside.

His chosen path of study was physical education, a decision driven by dual ambitions: to obtain his teacher's certificate and to earn his coveted black belt, ultimately becoming a sensei. In his mind's eye, he could see a future where, if finances permitted, he would breathe new life into his uncle's dojo, honoring the legacy of the man who had inspired him so profoundly.