The courtyard was a whirlwind of chaotic, joyous energy. A group of younger children were playing a frantic game of football, their laughter echoing off the old stone walls. They were using a worn-out, deflated ball, their goals two piles of discarded sweaters. It was a scene he had lived a thousand times, a scene that was etched into the very fabric of his being.
He stood by the gate, a silent, hooded figure, watching the game with a quiet smile on his face. He saw the raw, uninhibited joy of playing for the love of the game, the joy that he had sometimes lost in the high-stakes, high-pressure world of professional football.
One of the older boys, a lanky teenager with a shock of black hair, was trying to referee the game, his voice a mixture of authority and affection. He was one of the new generation, a boy who had arrived at the Casa after Mateo had left. He didn't recognize the hooded figure by the gate.
