A coal-black Friesian stallion, his pedigree traced back to championship lines, but a leg injury during transport had taken him off the dressage circuit. The owner, Marijke, was a retired trainer. Marijke had raised him
with care, refusing to sell him to anyone who saw only a flawed investment.
Quintijn watched Shariif with quiet defiance. He didn’t flinch, didn’t posture—he simply stood with presence. Something clicked. Shariif asked to drive him, just once.Their first test in the training field was shaky. Quintijn hesitated at tight turns and faltered on uneven terrain—but he listened, adjusted, learned. By the third session, their rhythm locked into place. Marijke observed from the fence, silent but smiling.
“I thought he was done,” she admitted one day. “But he was just waiting for the right kind ambition.”
She’d known horses her whole life, had rained dozens to ribbon glory, but Quintijn had never been just a project. She had raised him from a foal, guided him with steady hands and soft patience. And when the injury came, she didn’t grieve a lost investment—she grieved a vision that wouldn’t come to pass. Still, she kept him, brushing him down each evening, whispering encouragement he no longer needed. He grazed peacefully, unaware of the pity that people projected onto him.
“I used to think we trained horses to be winners,” she said softly. “But it turns out, they train us—to listen longer, hope harder.”