The late night air was cool, scented with dry earth and jasmine. A silver moon washed over the village, but its glow was no match for the fierce, electric heart of the neighborhood: a single, bare bulb on a lamppost, throwing a stark, yellow pool onto a rickety table. Four old men hunched over it like generals. The only sound that mattered was the relentless clackof domino tiles, cutting the quiet like gunshots.
Leaning against a rough wall just outside the circle of light, Ryan was a shadow.
Baba, his grandfather, studied the board, his face impassive. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he snapped a tile onto the table. CLACK. The double-six. "Take this," he grunted. "Let's see you build from that."
Across from him, Mustache Ali groaned. "Always with the heavy artillery, Omar! You save them just to torture us."
Ryan rolled his eyes. Sun Tzu just rolled in his grave from the grief of never meeting such a worthy opponent.
As if sensing the mockery, Baba threw a slow, deliberate glance his way.
Shit, here we go again.
He shifted his weight against the wall, one hand tucked in his pocket. The other came up, pinching the bridge of his nose, and his gaze drifted out from under his brow. Over one guy's hand. Then the other's. Didn't stop. Didn't focus. Just a scan.
His hand dropped. He looked back at his grandpa and gave a tiny, lazy shake of his head. Slow down. Be cool.
Baba's face didn't so much as twitch. He just turned back and played a safe tile as if their entire silent conversation had never happened.
What a poker face, Ryan thought. A picture flashed in his mind: his grandfather in a sharp suit, calmly slamming some guy's head into a table. Ah, what could've been. Such a waste of talent.
His eyes scanned the table. Old Man Salah was down to two tiles. Basically out. Ryan angled his body, blocking Salah from his view entirely.
New target acquired. Optimal position secured.
Baba played a perfect tile, then scowled at the board. "Your luck won't last forever," he grumbled at Mustache Ali. "Can't get a good tile to save my life tonight."
Ryan bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes scanning the shadows between houses, looking for a camera, a film crew, anything. Oscar-worthy performance right here. Scorsese would've loved his old ass.
Two more rounds passed in silent signals. A raised eyebrow. A slight cough. A casual scratch of the ear.
Then, with the board perfectly set, Baba snapped his final tile down. "Game." He immediately slumped back with an exhausted sigh. "Hoo! That was too close. You old farts never let go easily."
"You were on fire tonight, Omar!"
Baba waved a dismissive hand. "Everyone has one of those nights." He laughed along, the picture of a humble, lucky old man.
As the men gathered the tiles, Baba stood and started for home, Ryan falling into step beside him. After a few paces, Ryan casually put his hand out, palm up.
Baba glanced at it. "What?"
"You don't think James Bond works for free, do you?"
Baba grumbled, digging into his pocket. "How much?"
"Every win is a hundred. You won five tonight. You do the math."
Baba stopped, letting out a sharp laugh, but slapped a bill into Ryan's hand. "A five-hundred dinar consultant. Highway robbery."
"Quality intel costs money, old man. Don't hire me if you can't afford me."
Ryan peeled off toward the corner store, its fluorescent sign buzzing. "Give me a big cup of tea. Extra mint." He pointed to the burlap sacks. "Now, 200 dinar of those nuts." He grabbed a bottle of Jus from the fridge and pointed to a chocolate bar. "And that one."
As the shopkeeper rang it up, Ryan looked at the five hundred dinar note. Look at you. So much honor. Such aura. The future will not be kind to a noble soul like you. He slid the bill across the counter. Farewell, old friend.
Ryan pushed the door open, the warm, familiar smell of the house wrapping around him. "Grandma! Mom! I got some snacks, come on!"
The first to appear was his sister, Leila, emerging from her room. "Since when do you buy snacks?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
Ryan grinned. "Now your ears are working?" He reached out, playfully slapping her on the back of the neck. "Good. Go grab some tea cups. Make yourself useful."
Their grandmother emerged from her room, her long silver hair half-braided. "Oh, you bought tea? There are still some fruit left, let me bring them."
"Naah, you sit," Ryan said, his tone shifting to one of gentle command. Just then, Leila returned with a tray of tea cups. He pointed a finger at her. "Hey, Leila. You, with the fruit. Go."
Leila set the tray down with a thud. "Why me again?"
"Because I said so."
Leila's eyes darted from Ryan's face to the nuts and chocolate on the table. She let out a sharp huff, turned on her heel, and stalked back toward the kitchen.
Ryan turned to his grandmother, who was watching with an innocent, amused smile. He reached out and gently pinched her cheek.
"You need to learn how to delegate," he told her, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You didn't go through the mean mother-in-law phase, and it shows."
A sudden, sharp slap landed on the back of his head. "Don't you corrupt your grandma with your nonsense," his mother said, taking a seat at the table.
Ryan rubbed his head, grinning. "It builds character!"
His mother just shook her head, a sigh hiding her own smile.
As the tea was poured and the snacks passed around, the room filled with the easy rhythm of their voices. From her seat, Grandma watched the scene, her work-roughened hands resting in her lap. A slow, deep smile spread across her face as she listened to the noise—the clink of teacups, the rustle of the nut bag, the laughter that bounced off the walls. Her eyes moved from one face to another, watching the life she had built fill the room, and for a moment, the simple chaos was the only thing that existed.
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The ceiling fan in the coffee shop turned with a lazy click, pushing the scents of cardamom and coffee around three old men at a small table.
"...and the suspension is like sitting on a cloud, I'm telling you!" one friend said.
"Feh! Overpriced," the other countered.
"It is not overpriced," Mohand said.
"It's overpriced and it's trash," Baba grumbled, not looking up from his glass.
"Come on, Omar."
"Yeah, you are even grumpier than usual. What happened?" Mohand pressed.
"Nothing. Is telling the truth a crime around here?"
"Okay, okay," Mohand said, softening his tone. "We both know it's not about the car."
"It's not. But you are talking too much. It's just a car."
Seeing their unconvinced stares, he finally sighed. "Okay, okay. You guys don't know the trouble I'm gonna face."
The other two leaned in, listening.
"The summer vacation is gonna end in less than two weeks."
They shrugged. "Yeah? Why is that a problem?"
"It's a problem! They built the new school less than 200 meters from my house. Those gremlins will be running around yelling from 7 AM. I will not see a moment's peace."
The other friend nodded solemnly. "Yeah, that sounds awful."
Mohand clicked his tongue in sympathy. "And oh, all the cars! The parents dropping them off... the traffic will be a nightmare in the morning..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he watched Baba, who was studying the bottom of his glass a little too intently. Then a slow grin spread across his face. "Oooh," he said, the sound long and drawn out. "I get it now."
"You old fart," Mohand said, his voice full of mock revelation. "Don't make it about the school entirely. You're gonna miss your precious grandkids, huh? When are they leaving?"
Baba's head snapped up. "Huh? Of course not! Don't be ridiculous. They are so old now, I'm used to them going back." He shifted in his chair, suddenly defensive. "Plus, that brat Ryan... if you give him two more months, the house will be unrecognizable."
Mohand just smirked, his eyes twinkling. "Yeah, yeah. You are not alone, you know. Even I will miss Ryan. The football will not be the same without him and his big mouth."
"Pfft," Baba scoffed, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly, but he couldn't quite meet their eyes. "Nonsense. Absolute nonsense."
Mohand leaned back, a knowing look on his face. "We'll see," he said softly. " if you have the same attitude once they're actually gone."
Baba just folded his arms and looked away, a deep "Hmph" rumbling in his chest. "You'll see." He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the tile floor. "I'm leaving." Without another word, he stood and walked out of the café into the fading afternoon light.
The other friend shook his head, taking a slow sip of his coffee. Mohand watched Baba's retreating back, a fond, weary smile on his face.
"He will never change," Mohand said, and it sounded like both a complaint and a promise.
After finishing his coffee, Mohand paid and stepped out into the warm evening. He hadn't walked more than a few paces when he spotted a familiar figure leaning against a car, watching the village square. A grin spread across Mohand's face.
He walked up and gave Karim a firm, friendly slap on the shoulder. "I guess our humble matches made you a fan, huh?"
Karim didn't startle, just turned his head with a slow, easy smile. "A fan is too much. Let's say I appreciate the... atmosphere."
Mohand chuckled, not buying it for a second. "Don't deny it. I've caught you watching multiple times now."
Karim's smile remained, but his tone was light and evasive. "Watching is free. Still doesn't make me a fan."
As they began to walk together, Mohand gestured to the spot where Karim had been standing—a perfect vantage point overlooking the entire square and the dusty pitch beyond. "Look at you," Mohand said, his voice rich with amusement. "Already all familiar with the best spots. You're fitting right back in."
Karim's arms were crossed, his gaze a laser. He wasn't watching a game; he was conducting an autopsy. Every off-the-ball run, every glance, every shift in posture—it was all data.
"He's caught your attention," Mohand said, his voice low.
Karim didn't look away. "Yeah."
Mohand smiled. "It's obvious. His feet are blessed. The ball is under his command like a pet."
Karim nodded slowly, but his expression was grim, not celebratory. "But is that enough?" Mohand pressed, sensing his nephew's reservation.
"No," Karim stated, his voice flat. "Being technically gifted was never enough."
"Then why?" Mohand asked, gesturing at Karim, then at the pitch. "Why are you here daily, just for him?"
"Seriously, Karim, what is in your head?"
Karim finally tore his eyes from the game. He turned to Mohand and tapped his own forehead with a firm finger. "Here."
He saw the lack of comprehension in his uncle's eyes.
"Here," he continued, his voice dropping, "is where the boy's talent lays, Uncle. Not in his feet. Up here."
"Are you sure?" Mohand asked, skepticism warring with hope.
"Yeah, I am," Karim said, his conviction absolute. "I've been here multiple times now. That kid's brain... it's wired to play football. He sees things three steps ahead. He sees spaces that don't exist yet."
Mohand straightened up, the casualness leaving his posture. "You think... you think he can make it?"
Karim's eyes returned to Ryan, clinically assessing his average height, his decent but not blistering speed. "I haven't seen anyone with more chance of making it than him."
"Seriously?"
Karim nodded, his gaze still fixed on the pitch. "Including me."
Mohand's eyes widened. "Don't be joking now."
"I'm not." Karim let out a short, frustrated sigh. "Physically, he isn't something to brag about. But..." He tapped his temple again. "...His game is played here."
A heavy silence fell between them, filled only by the crowd's distant roar. Mohand was the one to finally break it, his voice barely a whisper. "So, what are you going to do about it?"
Karim stared at Ryan, a storm of conflict in his eyes. Finally, he shook his head, a gesture of helpless resolve. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I can't do nothing."
Mohand let out a long, slow sigh, the sound of a decision being made. "Now that I know... of course we are going to do something."
"I'll talk to him after he finishes," Karim said, his eyes already searching for where Ryan might exit the pitch.
"No," Mohand said, his voice firm and knowing. He placed a calming hand on Karim's arm. "I know the perfect person to talk to first."
Karim turned, a look of confusion on his face. "Huh?"
Mohand just smiled, a wise, secretive glint in his eyes. "Just trust me."