The Allianz Arena had fallen into that charged hush that only comes once a season, when that once was in Munich, the silence of anticipation before a stadium finds its voice again.
A final sweep of lights circled across the tiers, catching banners, flags, and faces painted in blue, red, and white.
From the pitch to the highest rafters, every soul knew this was no ordinary evening; it was the night the Champions League would be decided.
On the far side, the anthem had only just faded, its echo lingering like incense in the air.
Players had exchanged their brief handshakes, the referee's coin had flicked through the Munich night and landed in Barcelona's favour.
Arsenal would kick off, but only after one more deep inhale of this moment.
The camera cut across the stands.
A father lifted his son onto his shoulders, pointing down at the glittering line of players, as if to say, Look—this is what you'll tell stories about one day.
