The sun was dipping low, softening into amber streaks across the rooftops as Leon and Byon walked side by side down the winding neighborhood road. Their shadows stretched long behind them, fading into the warm glow of dusk.
They reached the edge of Leon's street—a tree-lined cul-de-sac nestled in the calm of suburbia. Birds chirped lazily from overhead branches, the kind of evening melody that made the world feel slower.
Byon came to a stop first. He squinted up at the sky, then turned to Leon with a lopsided grin.
"See you, superstar! Don't forget to train hard!"
Leon chuckled.
"Of course… you too. Stay ready."
Byon gave him a playful salute, then turned and jogged off, whistling a random tune that faded with each step. His figure became a blur of movement between hedges and driveways until he disappeared behind the corner.
Leon stood for a moment longer, facing the house.
It was modest—two stories, brick walls, a sloped roof. Nothing extravagant, but something about it gave off warmth. A tall tree stood by the edge of the front yard, its leaves dancing gently in the breeze. The windows were open, and through them came the soft clinking of dishes and the faint sound of a soap opera playing on the living room TV.
His heart relaxed at the sound.
He walked up the path slowly.
This house. This version of his life. It still felt new.
And yet… it was starting to feel like his.
He pushed the door open.
It creaked slightly, the same way it always did.
The scent of something warm—probably tea and toasted bread—drifted out to greet him.
"Leon?" came his mother's voice, slightly raised over the background noise of the TV.
He stepped inside, dropped his bag gently by the stairs, and walked toward the kitchen.
She was standing by the stove in a loose cardigan, hair tied up, one hand stirring something in a pot and the other already moving to grab a clean towel.
The moment she saw him, she didn't hesitate. She crossed the space and wrapped him in a tight, familiar hug.
No words. Just warmth.
"Tired from training?" she asked as she pulled back, her voice gentle.
Leon gave a small nod, smiling faintly.
"A little… but it was a good day."
"You're eating something. No skipping meals just 'cause you're chasing dreams."
He didn't argue.
She placed a plate in front of him with some cut-up fruit, toast with a light spread of butter, and a glass of milk.
They sat together at the small kitchen table, the quiet hum of the house settling around them. The living room TV kept playing softly in the background—a news update, then some old sitcom.
Leon watched the screen but didn't really see it.
His mind kept flicking back—like a highlight reel—to the day's events.
Coach's announcement.
Byon's energy.
The words "scouts from Leipzig."
The way his heart had jumped.
The way it was still beating, just a bit faster.
He took a bite of toast, slowly, thoughtfully.
His mother glanced at him.
"Nervous?"
Leon blinked.
"Huh?"
"You've barely touched the fruit." She gave him a knowing smile.
"You do that when you're thinking too much."
He chuckled under his breath.
I used to hide everything. In my first life, no one ever asked.
Now, someone saw right through him.
"There's a big match coming up." He kept his voice even.
"Scouts'll be there. From Europe too."
She didn't look surprised.
"That's why you came back extra quiet today." She stood and ruffled his hair, voice light but steady. "Well, then. Give them a reason to remember your name."
He looked up at her—eyes wide, caught off guard.
There was no pressure in her voice. No expectation. Just belief.
Pure and simple.
He finished the meal in comfortable silence, then helped with the dishes before heading upstairs. His legs were tired. His shoulders too. But his mind—his mind buzzed.
His room was a small space tucked into the corner of the second floor. Posters of players like De Bruyne, Modrić, and Son hung across the walls. His cleats sat near the door, still a bit dusty from the pitch.
He changed into a loose shirt and shorts, brushed his teeth, then flopped onto the bed.
The mattress creaked.
The fan above hummed softly.
He lay there in the dark, the ceiling staring back at him, unmoving.
The silence was different here.
Not the kind you heard.
The kind you felt.
The kind that let you think—about everything and nothing at once.
His fingers fiddled with the hem of his blanket.
One week.
Just seven days.
One short week that could decide the next chapter of his story.
Of this story.
He thought of his teammates—some confident, some unsure. He thought of Byon, bouncing like a firecracker through every session. He thought of Coach Holloway's gaze—calculated, as if constantly weighing each player's soul.
And most of all, he thought of himself.
Leon Fisher.
Ten years old.
Or maybe… something more.
He took a deep breath.
He wasn't just a kid hoping to impress.
He was someone with memories. With pain. With dreams that stretched across lifetimes.
And this time, he wouldn't waste it.
His lips moved without thinking.
"In one week… my life might change forever."
A quiet truth in the stillness of a young boy's room, beneath the gaze of old football posters and the steady whirl of a ceiling fan.
A quiet truth… right before the storm.