The world was no longer a silent, sterile place.
Two weeks had passed since the night Inter had made their incredible comeback against PSG, and my life had settled into a new, quiet rhythm.
My leg was still in its brace, but the physical therapy was paying off. The sharp, aching pain had subsided, replaced by a dull, manageable throb. I spent my days on the couch, my leg elevated, and the Vision, my lost-and-found ability, was slowly returning to me. It was still a bit like a flickering lightbulb, sometimes bright and clear, sometimes just a faint glow, but it was there, a steady sign of hope.
I was propped up on the couch, a steaming bowl of my mom's famous carbonara in my lap, scrolling through my phone.
The team was preparing for a crucial league match, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of absence. My mom came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Don't eat too fast, Leon. You'll get a stomachache."
"I'm fine, Mom," I said with a smile. "I'm just excited."
