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ACT 5 OF VOLUME 2
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The silence was the first thing I noticed. After the deafening, soul-shaking roar of Wembley, the quiet of my apartment felt like a physical presence, a thick blanket muffling the world.
It was Sunday morning, less than twenty-four hours since we had lifted the FA Youth Cup, and the adrenaline was finally, slowly, beginning to recede, leaving in its wake a profound sense of exhaustion and a strange, hollow ache.
The trophy, a gleaming silver testament to our impossible dream, sat on the coffee table, catching the morning light. It looked smaller than it had on the pitch, less mythical, more real. I had polished it three times already, a nervous, repetitive action, as if I was afraid it might just disappear if I didn't keep touching it.
