The next morning, the riverside field was almost empty.
Only the old man, Senda, was waiting, sitting on a bench with a ball at his feet.
When Rikuo arrived, he seemed hesitant, almost nervous.
"Ah! You came," Senda said cheerfully.
Rikuo shrugged.
"I… just wanted to see."
"Then look," replied the old man, gently sending the ball toward him.
A simple pass.
Then another.
Then a touch.
And without really deciding to, Rikuo began to move, dribble, link actions together.
His muscles remembered.
His body guided him.
After a few minutes, Senda stopped him.
"You know why I approached you ? "
Rikuo shook his head.
"Because what I saw yesterday… I've seen it in very few young players. You don't play: you breathe with the ball."
He paused.
"A three-day trial with Tokyo CF. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is easy. But I want to bring you there."
Rikuo remained silent.
His heart was pounding.
The word football hadn't resonated in him like this for so long.
Senda placed a hand on his shoulder.
"So… what do you say?"
Rikuo swallowed hard.
Then replied slowly:
"…Let me think. I… I'll give you my answer tomorrow."
The old man smiled, without pressing.
"Very well. The real decision must come from you, not me. I'll be here tomorrow, same time."
And with that, he walked away, hands in his pockets, leaving Rikuo alone with his thoughts.
That night, Rikuo didn't speak to his father.
He went straight to his room, sat on his bed, and stayed still for a long moment.
Then, as if drawn by something, he stood up and opened a box of memories.
Photos.
Trophies.
Newspaper clippings.
Blue jerseys.
He came across a photo:
Him, young, smiling, a ball under his arm.
Alicia and Takeshi behind him, proud, beaming.
A lump formed in his throat.
He picked up a framed photo of his mother, laughing, her hand on his shoulder after a match.
"Mom… if I start again… would you be happy?"
The silence of the room answered him.
A heavy silence.
A silence with no reply.
"…I know. As if you could answer anyway."
He pressed the photo to his forehead, eyes wet.
Then he looked out the window.
Night had fallen.
The moon faintly lit Tokyo.
The sky was dotted with stars.
Then suddenly —
A shooting star streaked across the horizon.
At that exact moment, a burning memory resurfaced in his heart.
Flashback — Middle school, years ago
He was crying.
He had just lost an important match.
He trembled with disappointment.
His mother knelt to be at his level.
"My son… you're the happiest when you're near a ball. I can see it in your eyes."
He sniffled, unable to speak.
"But listen carefully: even if one day you must stop… I will always be there for you. Always. You don't have to endure pressure. You just have to have fun. Feel alive."
She placed a hand on his cheek.
"You're the best, Rikuo. And I will always be proud of you. I will wait to see you at the top… but only if it's you who wants to go."
Her smile shone like a light in his memory.
The memory faded.
Rikuo opened his eyes, throat tight.
"Mom… if I continue, it will be for me. Not for anyone else."
He looked at the shooting star as a sign.
Like the very first day of his birth.
Then he made his decision.
Clear.
Definite.
He would go to the trial.
Three days.
Tokyo CF.
And whatever happened… he would keep it secret.
He would tell his father only if he succeeded.
Rikuo stood up, took a deep breath, and whispered
"It's decided. Tomorrow… I go back on the field."
The night could be dark.
But inside him, a light was being reborn.