A few days after John's return, as training had resumed and the media buzz had somewhat faded, the city of Swansea seemed to return to its natural rhythm. But something inside John was still unsettled. Not just the sense of responsibility, nor Marcus's unspoken words—something much more personal.
That Sunday morning, John decided to walk through the old parts of Swansea. He passed courtyards where posters from past matches still clung to the walls, passed the library where he sometimes went alone to analyze games. But his steps led him to a place he hadn't expected to visit that day.
There, in front of the entrance to a small city park, she stood.
Elizabeth.
His childhood love. The girl with whom he had first shared his dream of becoming a goalkeeper. The girl who had suddenly disappeared from Sornarel years ago—without a goodbye.
John froze for a moment. Elizabeth was sitting on a bench, a coffee in her hand, eyes buried in a book, a kind of forgotten peace on her face. She had barely changed—slightly taller, her hair braided, and her smile still just as warm and genuine.
John walked toward the bench, with a kind of childlike quiet. When he approached, Elizabeth looked up. And for a moment—the world stood still.
"John… Vermog?" she said, a bit surprised, a bit emotional.
John smiled.
"Do you still remember me?"
Elizabeth laughed—slightly hesitant, slightly sincere.
"Of course I do. You were the boy who proved to me that anyone could become a goalkeeper—even if your hands looked like sticks hanging from your shoulders."
John laughed. He had forgotten that story. And though so much time had passed, for a moment he felt his heart return to childhood.
They sat together. At first, they talked about the weather, then about Sornarel. Elizabeth told him that her family had moved north because her mother had been ill. But now they had returned—her mother was well again, and she wanted to revisit the places of her childhood to see what had remained.
"And you… you've changed, John," she said, looking at him. "You're not that shy boy anymore."
John looked down at the ground.
"Sometimes I wish I had stayed that way. There's something strange about the world listening to you, when you no longer listen to yourself."
They talked for a long time. And in that conversation, there was something no press conference could ever provide—honesty. Neither victory nor failure outweighed the value of this moment.
Suddenly, John went silent, opened the backpack he always carried, and began searching. He pulled out an old, worn, but beloved notebook. The cover was blue, slightly torn at the corner, with faded words: Keep Going. He held it out to Elizabeth—half cautious, half proud.
"Do you remember this?" he asked. "You gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday. Others gave me sportswear or chocolate, but you… you gave me a notebook."
Elizabeth gently took the notebook. She ran her fingers across the cover—as if she was touching the past.
"I remember… You were emotional that day. You said maybe you didn't belong in football, because no one took you seriously. And I wanted to give you something that would always stay with you."
John smiled.
"From that day on, I wrote something after every game. Later I added goals, analysis, even feelings. And you know what? At the end of each page, I wrote a sentence you told me that day—'You are a goalkeeper not because of your hands, but because of your heart.'"
Elizabeth's eyes welled up for a moment. She hugged the notebook to her chest.
"I never imagined you'd keep it all these years. But I'm glad it became a little part of your story."
She looked at him again. "You know, when I left Sornarel, I thought maybe you'd forget me. But I always believed you'd find your way."
John smiled shyly.
"I did. But without you, that road sometimes felt empty."
Silence settled between them. The city, under the gentle spring breeze, seemed to witness the meeting.
They walked through the park. John said:
"These past few days, I kept wondering what success really means. But today I understood—if you don't share it with someone whose belief matches yours, then it's just numbers on a screen."
Elizabeth stopped. Looked at him.
"And what do you want now, John?"
He thought for a long moment.
"I want to remember why I started playing. I want to continue—but not just to win. And if you—my childhood Elizabeth—are by my side, I won't forget what comes from the heart."
Elizabeth smiled. Brightly, tenderly, like in the days of childhood.
"Then let's walk together. Even though you're famous now, I still remember how you'd fall chasing the ball and get up with a grin."
John and Elizabeth kept walking. The city, in the night, seemed to whisper of a new beginning.
That evening, John returned home with a peace in his heart that no victory or fame could bring. He opened the same notebook Elizabeth had given him years ago. With pen in hand and soul on paper, he wrote something he hadn't written in a long time:
"Today, I became whole. Not through the game, but through the return of the one who reminded me who I used to be…"