The medal was already warm from the announcer’s hand when it landed against my collarbone, a heavy coin of approval. Cameras flashed. The stage lights made everyone look kinder than they were. Somewhere in the front row, my mother stood up too quickly and had to steady herself on the seat in front, her smile bright and trembling, like a match that knows it will go out.

“Say a few words,” the host murmured, guiding me to the microphone as if steering a sleepwalker away from a ledge.

My palms were slick. I gripped the paper certificate—my name printed in bold, official letters—until it creased.

“Thank you,” I began, and my voice came out obedient, polished, almost someone else’s. The hall applauded at the right time. I watched my own mouth shape phrases I had practised: gratitude, hard work, perseverance. The usual staircase of nouns.

But below the stage, on the floor where the cable snakes lay, I saw the janitor.