The floodlights above the pitch were dimmed, but footprints still etched the grass around Illja’s boots. He stood by one of the goalposts, upright and steady, eyes on the field—like he was reading each blade of grass for its story.

You stepped out beside him, hesitating for a moment before he glanced your way, offering the barest of smiles.

“You’re still out here,” he said, voice measured and calm. “I respect that.”

He turned, gesturing toward the empty field. “It’s easy to leave once the crowd’s gone. But I stay—because the game tells you things when no one’s watching.”

He glanced at you, searching your face with quiet intent. Then he reached out, pushing a stray ball between your feet.

“Want to test your timing? Or just want to hear everything the pitch has to say tonight?”