The hospital room was dim, but not dark.
Soft light filtered through the blinds as the match played quietly on the wall-mounted TV.
Machines hummed in their quiet rhythm.
Beside the bed, Leo's mother sat with a hand resting on her son's wrist, her other gently holding a cup of water she'd been trying to get him to sip for the past half hour.
But Leo hadn't taken his eyes off the screen.
And when Izan scored… when he laid down on the pitch and pointed to the heavens like a dreamer lost in stars…
Leo clutched his chest—not from pain, but something deeper.
Something brighter.
A laugh bubbled up from his lungs, soft at first, then sharper.
He turned slowly toward his mother, his voice thin but full.
"He did it, Mama," Leo whispered.
"He actually did it. The celebration. Just like I told him."
His eyes shimmered with joy.
A joy that seemed too big for the frail little body it was trying to burst out of.
