The air was freezing; a thin rain fell like a curtain of melancholy over the training pitch. Juglian, wrapped in a dark coat with sunglasses concealing his sapphire eyes, felt like a ghost. His bag, containing a notebook and a pen, was a disguise—a mask that made him look like an ordinary man, perhaps a journalist. His heart hammered against his ribs, a drum of anxiety and hope.
He blended into the crowd of parents and coaches, a shadow that drew no attention. Then, he saw him. Cristian. At eleven years old, he was the spitting image of his father, but there was something fundamentally different about him. It wasn't his body, but his spirit. While the other boys ran chaotically, Cristian moved with a grace and precision that didn't belong to his youth. Every movement was a calculation; every touch was an assertion. It wasn't a game; it was a battle of wits.
The ball, an extension of his soul, danced beneath his feet. His control was a work of art, an optical illusion. The ball didn't bounce; it didn't stray. It moved with him like a second skin, glued to his boot by an invisible force. A light touch, a delicate nudge, and the ball stopped—a perfect imprint on his foot, motionless for an instant before resuming its dance.
But the electricity, the chaos, and the eccentricity that had defined the young Juglian were absent. There was no vanity. His play was purely strategic. He didn't dribble to humiliate, but to create space. He didn't shoot for beauty, but for the result. His game was a reflection of his soul—a soul that was not a fire, but a steady river.
The match ended, and Cristian, his jersey soaked with sweat, headed toward the locker rooms. Juglian, his heart in his throat, stepped toward him.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice a mere whisper. "I'm a journalist; I wanted to ask you a couple of questions."
Cristian stopped, and his dark eyes—so like his mother's—looked at him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. "Sure," he said. "What do you want to ask me?"
"Your playing style," Juglian said, his heart racing, "it's very unique. It's not like other kids your age. It's very strategic, very... calculated. Where did you learn it?"
Cristian smiled, a look that brightened his entire face. "I had a master," he said. "I learned it from a friend. He taught me not to just run, but to think. He taught me that football isn't just a game of legs, but a game of the mind."
Juglian felt a knot tighten in his throat. Near. Near had taught his son to be a better player than he himself had ever been. A player of intellect, not just instinct.
"And your other style?" Juglian asked, his voice a whisper of pain. "Your dribbling. Is that something one can learn, or is it a talent you have from birth?"
Cristian laughed—a sound that made him seem like a normal child again. "I know," he said. "Everyone tells me it's a talent I've had since birth. But I don't believe that. I think it's something I learned. I learned to be one with the ball. To make it dance. To make it fly. I learned to be one with myself."
Juglian didn't say another word. His heart was full of an emotion he couldn't describe. Pride, love, and agonizing pain. All these feelings swirled within him—a vortex that made him tremble.
"Thank you," Juglian said. "It was a pleasure. And an honor."
"Thank you," Cristian replied. "It was a pleasure for me too. But I have to go. My mom is waiting."
Cristian walked away, and Juglian watched him go—his figure receding, disappearing into the gray rain. He was his son, his flesh and blood. But he was also a shadow, a ghost he had never truly known. A ghost who had become a man in his absence.