As the golden rays of the sun disappeared behind the towers of the capital city, John and Lian climbed the steps of the broadcast center, walking as if through another time, detached from the world. People were still singing and dancing in the streets, embracing strangers like old friends. But deep inside John, a voice was already walking a different path.
They walked in silence, hand in hand, until Lian suddenly stopped.
"Do you want to go back to where it all began?" she asked.
John knew what she meant—Sornare.
"Yes," he said. "My home is still there. And now, more than ever, I want to return."
Two Days Later — Sornare
The wind felt the same. The cold had softened slightly. John walked down the village's familiar street, the one where he had first worn goalkeeper gloves. The old trees still stood tall, and the field—though damp and cold—felt alive.
He paused at the edge of the schoolyard field. It was here he had fallen, failed, stood back up. The goal net was frayed, torn in one corner. But that very imperfection reminded him of the real journey.
Lian sat on a rock nearby, a new notebook in her hands.
"What are you writing?" John asked.
"A story," she said, smiling. "About a boy who forgot his worth. But then he didn't find the answer—he found the question."
"What question?"
"What does it mean to be strong?"
John looked out toward the horizon. Suddenly, laughter echoed from afar. A group of kids was running toward the field, led by a boy wearing a worn-out jersey.
The boy stopped at the field's edge and looked at John—unaware of who he really was.
"Want to play a bit?" he asked.
John smiled. "I'm a goalkeeper. Let's see if you can score."
The children's eyes lit up. They kicked off their shoes, and for a while, there was nothing but the game. John dove, blocked, even let some goals in—so the kids would believe they could win.
When the game was over, the boy sat down next to John.
"You look familiar," he said. "Are you... are you John Vermog?"
John nodded.
The boy's eyes widened. But then, he quietly said,
"No one ever notices me. But today... you did."
John leaned closer. "Sometimes, all it takes is one glance to help someone believe in themselves. I saw you—because once, someone saw me."
Two Weeks Later — The Capital
A small room was opened for John in the TV archives. He wasn't playing anymore. He was writing. His story. But not as a legend—as a boy who still lived inside his dream.
One afternoon, after finishing a new chapter, Lian walked in.
"Remember how you said you'd write a book—not about matches, but about the soul?" she asked.
"I remember," John replied.
She handed him an envelope.
"A publisher heard your interview. They want to publish your story—not as a biography, but as a guide—for all those still fighting the fear of being forgotten."
John took the envelope but didn't open it.
"Will you finish it?" Lian asked.
"I've already started," he said. "And this time—I won't stop."
Several Months Later — Book Launch
The book was titled "The Intervals." People read it in silence. Because it wasn't a story about victory—it was a story about strength. Not about the crowd's applause, but the quiet moments that shape a person.
On launch day, the hall was full of children from all corners. Many had never left their hometowns. They came to see John Vermog, but they left having found something within themselves.
John stood on the stage, notebook in hand. He didn't speak long, but every word landed like a heartbeat.
"They tell us to be strong. But sometimes being strong means being vulnerable—and not being afraid of it. Sometimes, it means standing back up after letting in the worst goal of your life, and saying, 'I'm still here.'"
He closed the book.
"This story is mine. But it's also yours. If you've ever felt invisible—remember: somewhere, someone once stood where you are now, and they are holding a light so you can find your way."
Conclusion
John Vermog's story never became just a sports tale. He became a quiet revolution. People began to see goalkeepers not just as defenders—but as storytellers who save something every day.
Lian was writing her own book now, titled "She Saw Me."
And in Sornare, after every game, kids no longer said, "We won" or "We lost."
They said:
"We played. And that's already a victory."