Chapter 2 – Fog and Old Boots
The morning fog returned, thicker than ever. It swallowed the hills, smudged the outlines of the stone fences, and wrapped the village of Penedono in a silence that felt sacred. Dew hung heavy on every vine and roof tile. As the church bell rang softly in the distance—seven chimes exactly—Jota opened his eyes.
His breath misted in the cold air of the bedroom. The wood window beside his bed was cracked open, letting in the raw scent of wet earth and smoke from neighboring chimneys. He sat up slowly, still adjusting to the new rhythm of this young, unfamiliar body.
Ana was already awake, her curls a frizzy halo as she hummed to herself, drawing something on a torn piece of cardboard.
"Bom dia, Jota!" she chirped. "Look, I made you a flag!"
She held it up. A crooked red rectangle with a circle in the middle—her version of the Portugal crest. The stick was just a pencil.
Jota smiled. "It's perfect."
"Mãe said you have to wear your coat today. It's cold."
Downstairs, Dona Helena was packing small bags of bread. The warmth of the oven reached up the stairs. Jota changed quietly, pulled on his worn jumper and thick jacket, then picked up the scuffed football boots beside his bed.
The same boots he'd worn yesterday.
His father's boots.
They were heavy, and they squeaked when he walked. But there was comfort in them—like carrying history on his feet.
---
School began with slow shuffles of sleepy children through the metal gate. The frost on the grass sparkled like powdered glass. Jota sat in his usual seat by the window, watching the fog melt as the sun climbed.
Math class passed in silence. History followed—more talk about the 1755 Lisbon earthquake than any ten-year-old wanted. But Jota didn't mind. He needed the quiet. It gave him space to think.
At break, while others chatted and traded stickers, Jota sat on the low wall near the olive trees, staring at the football pitch behind the school.
It wasn't much—just a dirt field with two sagging goals made from plumbing pipes. The lines were invisible, lost long ago to rain and time. Still, it called to him.
A memory stirred: the roar of Anfield, floodlights bouncing off the grass, Salah shouting his name.
He shook his head.
That was another life.
Now, he was a boy from Penedono.
---
In PE class, Senhor Manuel whistled them onto the pitch.
"Today, we sort positions. Tournament is only weeks away," he barked. "Show me where you play best!"
Chaos ensued.
Everyone wanted to be striker. João Pedro claimed center forward before anyone else opened their mouths. Vasco said he was born to be right wing. The girls were more hesitant, but one—Lúcia—stepped forward and called left back before anyone else could.
Jota waited. Quiet.
Senhor Manuel looked at him. "And you, Jota?"
"Left wing."
"You sure?"
He nodded. "Yes, sir."
It was the same position he had always played—cutting in on his right foot, using space and vision, surprising defenders. Some instincts never died.
They began warm-ups: laps, jumps, stretches. Jota moved like a ghost—fluid, light, effortless. His body may have been small, but the way he moved felt… familiar. Natural.
Then came the scrimmage. Two teams. No bibs. Just first names and shouts.
The game was sloppy. No one held formation. João Pedro hogged the ball. But when it rolled loose near the halfway line, Jota darted in.
One touch.
A feint.
He skipped past Vasco, nudged the ball forward, accelerated.
The others tried to catch him—but he was already thinking two moves ahead. Like always.
He passed to Tiago on the right, then sprinted into space.
Tiago hesitated, then saw the run and sent the ball. Jota met it cleanly, tapping it past the goalie with the inside of his foot.
A goal.
Simple. Elegant.
Senhor Manuel's whistle cut the air. "Play on!"
No compliments. No applause. Just a nod.
But that was enough.
---
At lunch, Jota sat on the wall again, biting into a cold meat sandwich his mother packed.
Vasco plopped beside him.
"You play weird," he said bluntly.
Jota raised an eyebrow. "Weird how?"
"Like you don't even try. But still score. That's... not normal."
Jota shrugged. "I like the game."
Vasco frowned. "Where'd you learn?"
"My dad used to play. I just watched him."
It was a lie. But close enough.
From the shade of the wall, Ana ran over holding a folded paper. "Jota! Jota!"
She waved a handwritten flyer.
"It's from Senhor Manuel," she said proudly. "You're shortlisted for the Penedono XI!"
Jota unfolded it. It was simple: a list of ten names.
His was at the top.
---
That evening, as dusk settled and the fog began to creep back in, Jota walked home slowly. The field where goats grazed was empty. The stone path felt older somehow, worn by his every step.
At home, Helena was sweeping the front yard.
"You're late," she said.
"Practice went long."
"You didn't even eat your apple."
"I'll eat it now."
She handed it to him. "How was school?"
"I made the team."
Helena paused. Her expression was unreadable for a second. Then she smiled.
"I always knew you had something special."
Ana, from inside, yelled, "He scored a goal, Mãe!"
Helena laughed. "Well, he better start scoring at home too—on his homework."
They went inside. The stove glowed orange. The smell of chouriço stew filled the air.
After dinner, Jota went to the backyard. The fog was thick now, swirling in the lamplight.
He set the ball down on the damp dirt and began juggling. One, two, three… seventeen… twenty-three…
He lost count.
Not because he dropped it.
But because his thoughts drifted.
What if I can really come back?
What if I rise again—not as the Diogo Jota they knew—but as this boy, this version, this… second chance?
A gust of wind blew through the vines.
He kept juggling.
---
The next day at school, Senhor Manuel pulled him aside after class.
"You play like someone much older," he said.
Jota blinked. "I just like football."
"That's not it. I've coached kids for twenty years. You read the field differently. Who trained you?"
"My father."
"Hmm."
He handed Jota a folded letter. "This is for your mother. It's permission for you to attend the regional camp in Viseu. If you keep playing like this, they'll want to see you."
Jota took the letter. His fingers trembled.
Viseu.
The first step beyond Penedono.
He walked home in silence that day. Not from fear—but focus.
That night, he sat with Ana in the living room as she colored her "Portugal Champions" poster. Helena read a recipe book from the shelf. The fire crackled. A radio played soft fado.
Outside, fog danced through the vineyard rows.
And in that moment, Diogo Jota—ten years old again—felt something stir inside his chest.
Not memories.
But purpose.
This was not a mistake.
This was a mission.
And the world had no idea what was coming.
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