The morning air in Rosario was thick with the smell of rain and the faint aroma of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner. Azul stood in his small room, staring at the worn backpack on his bed. Today was the day he would leave — his first step toward **Barcelona**, toward **LaMasia**, toward the **dream** that had fueled every **kick**, every **pass**, every minute of his young life.
His boots were polished, his jerseys folded neatly, and his **ball** sat in the corner, scuffed but familiar. He ran his fingers over the seams. Every scratch told a story: **street matches**, **late-nightdribbles**, and the endless hours imagining **Messi** beside him on a **pitch** far away.
Lucía **knocked softly** on the door. "**Azulito**… breakfast."
Azul **took a deep breath**, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He felt **nervous**, yes, but also alive. The city he had known his whole life — the **streets**, the **schoolyard**, the **makeshift goals** where he had first discovered his **vision** — would soon be behind him.
---
In the kitchen, the air smelled of coffee and lentil stew. Jorge sat at the table, hands clasped, quiet, as if the *gravity* of the moment had finally **reached him**.
Azul *walkedin*, carrying his *bag*. "**Papá**… I'm ready."
Jorge looked up, his **eyes** flicking between **Azul** and the **packed bag**. "Are you sure about this?" His voice was low, but there was a hint of pride beneath the **sternness**.
"I am," Azul said firmly. "It's time."
Lucía reached out, brushing a hand over Azul's cheek. "**We're proud of you, Azulito**. Always remember… see the game, but also see the world. Don't forget who you are."
Azul nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. Leaving wasn't just about **football**. It was about leaving his **home**, his **family**, and stepping into the **unknown**.
---
The ride to the airport was silent, punctuated only by the occasional rumble of the bus over the cracked pavement. Azul stared out the **window**, memorizing every **street**, every corner, every *familiar sound*. This city had shaped him. Every dustystreetmatch, every graffiti-covered wall, every laugh and shout would stay with him forever.
At the airport, the bright lights and crowds made him feel small, yet excited. His passport and ticket rested in his hand, tangible proof that his **dream** was no longer imaginary.
Lucía hugged him tightly. "Remember", Azul… the ball is your voice. Speak with it."
Jorge, after a long pause, placed a hand on his shoulder. "**Play smart. Work hard.Come back stronger.**"
Azul **steppedforward**, the weight of their words anchoring him. *Hewasready*.
---
The flight was long, and Azul spent it staring at the clouds, imagining the green pitches of **Barcelona**, the stadium lights, the cheers of fans, and the presence of Messi somewhere in that city.
He thought of the letter, folded in his pocket. *"Keep playing with joy. Keep seeing. Maybe one day we'll share the same pitch."*
The words pulsed like a heartbeat. Azul **smiled**, determined that someday, he would not just **seeMessi** — he would play beside him, share the same field, and prove that his **vision** was more than a **gift** — it was a destiny.
---
When he arrived in **Barcelona**, the city was alive in a way that **Rosario** had never been. The streets were wider, cleaner, and filled with the buzz of a hundred languages. Cars honked, **bicycleswhizzed**, and the **Mediterraneansun** cast long **shadows** over the buildings.
Azul's **eyeswidened**. Every **corner**, every **street sign**, every **face** was new, unknown, yet full of **possibility**.
The driver took him to **La Masia**, the legendary **academy** where some of the world's greatest **footballers** had trained. The **building** was older than it looked, with stone walls and green **courtyards**, the smell of **grass** and **freshpaint** mixing in the **air**.
Azul's **heart raced**. This wasn't just a **place to play football**. This was where **dreamswereforged**, where **talent** became **legend**, where **vision** could become **reality**.
---
Coach Domínguez **methimatthegate**, clipboard in hand. "Welcome, Azul. This is where it begins."
Azul followed him into the **trainingcourtyard**. Other **boys** were already there, warming up, passing, dribbling. They looked older, stronger, more confident. Azul felt a twinge of **fear**, but quickly pushed it aside.
*This is why I'm here,* he thought. *I see more. I adapt. I willrise.*
The drills started immediately. **Passing**, **movement**, **positioning**. Azul felt every **touch**, every **shift**, every **subtlehesitation** of the other boys. His **vision** was sharper than ever.
Diego Calderón wasn't here, but Azul felt his **spirit** in every **challenge**. He wasn't just playing for himself anymore — he was representing his **home**, his **family**, his **dreams**.
---
After the **firstsession**, Azul sat on the **bench**, sweat dripping, muscles aching, yet heart full. A boy nearby nudged him. "You're the new kid from Argentina, right?"
Azul nodded. "Azul Reyes."
"I've heard about you," the boy said, a hint of **respect** in his voice. "They say you see the game like no one else."
Azul smiled faintly. "I try."
It was enough for now. The work ahead would be **hard**, but every step, every drill, every pass was a **promise**.
---
That evening, Azul lay in his small **dormroom**, looking out the window at the **Barcelonaskyline**. The **lights** twinkled like distant stars. He thought of **Rosario**, of the **streets**, of the **two brick goals** where it all began.
He whispered to himself: "**Someday… Messi. I'll see you on the pitch. I'll make it real.**"
The **city** was foreign, the **academy** intimidating, the **road** ahead long. But Azul felt a **spark** — bright, unyielding, unstoppable.
He closed his **eyes**, gripping the **ball** beside him.
And he saw the future.
---
### *End of Chapter 6 – "Packing Dreams"*###