He came to see that grief would not be out-run, out-trained, or out-played; it would lace its boots beside his. Each fingertip save was a conversation with the past, every command to his defenders carried the echo of the one voice that had never once doubted him. The field, once a stage for ambition, became a place of communion. He was no longer performing; he was honoring. In those quiet seconds before kickoff, when the anthem faded and the crowd dissolved into a distant roar, he felt her presence not as a wound but as a weight that kept him steady. Loss had hollowed him, yes, but in that hollow space he found a new kind of strength: not the roar of victory, but the resolve to keep standing, keep diving, keep believing for them both.
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