The April sun hadn't fully warmed the ground yet, but Aven held a different kind of warmth—one that had little to do with weather. John often stood by the edge of the field, near the new goalpost. He had returned, not just to the village, but to his roots—to the position of goalkeeper. Not as a competitor, but as a flame that still quietly burned inside him.
Children often asked him to join their games.
"John, will you be in goal today? Please? You're the only one who can stop every shot!"
He smiled. Sometimes he declined, letting them play freely. But there were moments when something deep inside stirred—a longing for the game. And so, he would step in. Quiet. Ready. Just like before.
Kids from neighboring villages had started to show up too, having heard whispers of something special happening in Aven. The village hadn't changed. But the people had. More open. More willing to listen, to reach out, to care.
One afternoon, during a match on the field, little Daniel fell. John ran over immediately.
"Does it hurt?"
"A little… but I'll manage. You always say we learn from falling, right?"
John looked at him. Something moved inside. He remembered his own early falls, the doubts, the shame.
"You're right," he said softly. "But never forget—what matters just as much is who helps you back up, hand on your shoulder."
That evening, after the field had emptied, John joined Lian in the small library room where they sometimes gathered to shape ideas.
"I want to start a new program," he said. "For goalkeepers."
Lian smiled. "You still carry the soul of the game. But now you have something more. A story to tell. You'll teach them, won't you? Not just how to block a shot—but how to hold their ground when all eyes are on them."
John nodded. "Being a goalkeeper isn't just about the ball. It's about watching the game from the center—and guarding what others don't see."
Their idea grew fast. Once a week, after matches, John and Lian sat down with kids aged 10 to 14. They didn't just write stories anymore—they wrote thoughts. One child wrote, "I'm afraid of loud voices." Another, "When I stand in goal, I feel like the whole world is waiting for me to fail."
John told them about his first tournament, where the ball had passed right beside him, and the crowd went silent. Not angry. Just… disappointed.
"That hurt more than being mocked," he said. "But silence has a voice too. And we have to respond—not by shouting, but by staying present."
One rainy evening, the library door opened during their session. A tall man stepped in, soaked coat clinging to his shoulders.
"Are you John Vermog?" he asked.
John stood. "Yes…"
"My name is Alder. I'm from the Upper Northern Region Football Academy. We've heard about what you're doing here—especially the book, the stories. But my son remembers you as a goalkeeper. He plays in that position now."
John listened quietly.
"We'd like to invite you. To coach our young goalkeepers. Not just physically—but mentally. To teach them how to hold on when things fall apart. How to build from within."
Lian looked at John. She saw that silence in him—not fear, not confidence, but something deeper and more personal.
She whispered, "Go. But come back. Aven needs you—just like these kids do."
John nodded.
Weeks later, John was on a train out of Aven, heading toward the city. Beside him was a hand-bound book—compiled by Lian, filled with thoughts from young players, and notes from goalkeepers just learning to speak their truths.
At the stadium, the same one where he had once failed to stop a decisive shot, John now stood before a new generation.
He didn't talk for long.
He held up a ball—cracked along one side.
"This is the ball I missed when I was thirteen," he said. "That day, I thought it was the end. But years later, I realized—it was the beginning. Because when you lose something, you might find your real voice."
Over the following days, he trained both boys and girls. Many of them shared the same fear—of making mistakes.
"Fear isn't your enemy," he told them. "It's just a voice telling you this matters to you. Learn to speak to it. And you'll become not just goalkeepers—but guardians."
When John returned to Aven, he didn't feel heavy. His soul was light, because he knew—he had offered something to the world, and returned with even more.
One evening, as golden light stretched across the field, a little girl approached John.
"John," she said, "when I grow up, I want to be a goalkeeper like you. But I also want to be a writer. Can I be both?"
John knelt to her level.
"You can be anything you want," he said. "Because a true goalkeeper doesn't just stop goals—they protect dreams. Like this one."
He smiled. The girl ran back to her teammates.
And the field filled again with play. But it wasn't just sport anymore. It was hope, story, and the voice of the land—echoing every time the ball bounced on the soil.