The letter arrived on a quiet Thursday afternoon. It was tucked into the mailbox beneath a pile of bills and a supermarket flyer. Mahmoud almost missed it, pulling it out only because he saw the academy's name printed on the envelope. He held it for a moment in disbelief, his fingers trembling slightly.
He didn't open it right away. He took it to the rooftop.
The sun was just beginning to dip, and the sky was glowing with streaks of orange and gold. Mahmoud sat where he always sat, back against the small water tank, legs stretched out. He held the envelope in both hands and stared at it like it held the weight of the world.
"Would you like me to read the contents in advance?" VALYS asked gently.
"No," Mahmoud said. "This is one thing I want to feel for myself."
He ran his thumb along the flap once, twice, and then carefully tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet.
Printed.
Brief.
Cold.
But real.
Mahmoud Hassan,
You are hereby invited to continue in the regional developmental program for the next three months. Your performance in last week's trials met the minimum required standards for progression. Attendance, punctuality, and improvement will be assessed continuously. This is not a guarantee of future selection. This is a trial phase.
Report Monday, 6:00 a.m.
Bring boots. Be ready.
Mahmoud lowered the paper and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It wasn't praise. It wasn't celebration.
But it was a yes.
A door had opened—and not just a crack. It was wide enough to step through now.
He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
Behind his ribs, a small, steady fire lit up again.
This time, he didn't doubt it.
He would earn his place.
He would make sure the next letter didn't say trial.
It would say team.
The next morning, Mahmoud woke up before dawn without needing his alarm. His eyes opened to the soft blue of early morning light slipping through the curtain. For a moment, he lay still, listening to the city slowly begin to stir below his window—cars starting, shutters being pulled open, distant footsteps on the stairs.
He dressed quickly. Track pants. Compression shirt. Jacket. He moved with purpose, silent but steady, as if his body now understood that this routine was no longer just training—it was preparation for something real.
In the kitchen, his mother was already up, stirring tea. She looked over her shoulder when he walked in.
"You're going out again?" she asked.
Mahmoud nodded. "Training."
She didn't respond immediately. Just kept stirring. Then she placed a cup on the table.
"You're always tired. You barely eat. Are you even sure this is worth it?"
He hesitated, then walked over, picked up the tea, and met her eyes.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened for a moment. Then she turned away, pretending to fix something on the counter.
He left without another word.
On the way out of the building, he passed his neighbor, a short man who always complained about the kids playing football in the hallway. But today, the man gave him a nod. Mahmoud returned it. That, somehow, meant more than it should.
Outside, VALYS activated quietly.
"Estimated time to park: eleven minutes. Temperature optimal. Joints responsive. Begin warm-up during walk?"
"Let's do it," Mahmoud said.
They walked together in silence. VALYS guiding each stretch, each timed breath. Not like a machine anymore. More like a partner.
When Mahmoud reached the park, the first rays of sunlight had just broken through the trees. The grass was wet. The concrete slick. But he didn't slow.
Today's routine was sharper, more refined. He didn't need prompts. He knew the sequence. Footwork, sprints, balance. One drill rolled into the next with natural rhythm.
As he moved, Mahmoud didn't think about pain. Or fear. Or even the letter.
He thought about the kid he used to be. The one who watched football matches with a heart full of envy. The one who used to cry when his ankle wouldn't let him run. The one who used to pretend not to care when he was benched, laughed at, forgotten.
That kid was still inside him. But today, Mahmoud was running for both of them.
And neither of them was turning back.
By mid-morning, the park had filled with the usual crowd—joggers, dog walkers, early vendors pushing carts, and a group of kids chasing a ball across a dusty patch of earth near the fence. Mahmoud paused to drink from a bottle of water, wiping the sweat from his face as he watched them.
They couldn't have been older than ten, but the energy in their play was electric. One of the boys dribbled clumsily, tripped over the ball, and burst into laughter. No form, no rules, no structure—just joy.
Mahmoud smiled without meaning to.
"Emotional response noted," VALYS said. "Your heart rate is elevated, but not from exertion. What are you thinking?"
"I used to be like them," Mahmoud whispered. "Before everything got so complicated."
He remembered a time before injury. Before the weight gain. Before his parents told him to stop dreaming and focus on something "real." Back then, football had been pure. Not a test, not a job. Just a game.
"Do you wish to return to that simplicity?"
Mahmoud shook his head slowly. "No. I want to move forward. But I don't want to forget why I started."
He looked down at his feet, the worn laces of his boots tied tight. Then at his hands, slightly scraped from a fall earlier in training. His body was still imperfect. But stronger now. More willing.
He stepped back onto the training path and began another round of agility work, his legs burning, his lungs tightening. But he pushed through. Again and again.
With every movement, he repeated a thought in his head:
This is my place now. This is mine.
After nearly two hours, he collapsed into the shade of a tree, lying flat on the grass, chest rising and falling like waves. He stared up at the sky, letting the sun peek through the leaves overhead.
VALYS spoke softly.
"You have surpassed your weekly target for self-regulated training hours. Would you like to initiate recovery mode?"
"Yeah," Mahmoud breathed. "Let's recover."
And for a moment, as the city moved on around him and children's laughter echoed from the field nearby, he let himself rest.
Not because he was giving up.
But because he was learning, finally, how to endure.
That evening, Mahmoud sat at his desk with the letter unfolded beside him, smoothing the creases like it was a relic. The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the hallway bulb leaking through the open door. Distant voices came from the television in the living room, but they felt miles away.
On the desk, a notepad lay open. He had drawn a small pitch on it—just lines and circles—but each mark carried meaning. Positions, movements, spaces to attack. VALYS had helped him visualize different scenarios, adjusting formations, breaking down angles, predicting where the ball should go in transition.
"Cognitive mapping shows improved spatial anticipation," VALYS said. "This is an elite trait when developed fully."
"I need every edge I can get," Mahmoud whispered.
His mind drifted to Monday. The academy. The pressure. The other players. It would be different now. No more one-time assessments. This would be sustained scrutiny. Long sessions. Days where he might not even touch the ball. Days when he'd be invisible. Days when quitting would feel like relief.
But he wouldn't quit.
He thought about what his mother said that morning. About the fatigue. About the cost. She wasn't wrong. He was tired. And they did need him at home.
But what she didn't know was that without this, without football, without VALYS, without the chance to rise out of anonymity—he would've already disappeared into himself.
This was not a dream anymore.
It was survival.
He closed the notepad and reached under his bed, pulling out a small shoebox. Inside it were a few old photos, a broken whistle, a note from his cousin that said "Don't give up, even if they laugh." Mahmoud added the letter to the box, gently placing it on top.
He slid it back under the bed and stood by the window.
Outside, the city glowed with flickering lights. Motorbikes buzzed through narrow streets. Conversations floated up from balconies. But inside his chest, there was stillness. Calm before something big.
He whispered to the night air, to no one and to everything:
"I'm not just playing to win. I'm playing to exist."
Behind him, VALYS's voice broke the silence, low and steady.
"Then we continue forward."
Mahmoud nodded once, then turned off the light.
End of Chapter 9.