Father's roar struck Leo's taut heart like a boulder, crushing all his joy and courage into dust in an instant. He kept his head bowed low, fingers digging into the patch on his trouser seam, daring not to breathe too loudly. All he could hear was his father's heavy footsteps, one after another, as if trampling on his nerves, each step making his whole body tremble.

  The flock of sheep still grazed idly nearby. The fading sunlight cast a pallid glow upon his father's sullen face, stretching his shadow long and sinister, suffocating with oppressive weight. Leo could anticipate his father's impending fury—perhaps a torrent of scolding, perhaps a slap across the face, perhaps being dragged home by force, never to be allowed near this clearing again, never to touch that white ball.

  ‘What are you standing there for?’ Father's voice grew deeper as he thrust the hoe into the ground with a dull thud. ‘Lazy with the sheep, playing with this useless thing instead. Have you forgotten what you were raised on?’

  Leo's eyes instantly reddened, tears welling up but stubbornly held back. He wanted to explain, to tell his father this wasn't useless—it was the light illuminating his life—but the words caught in his throat, reduced to broken sobs: ‘I... I wasn't slacking off. I was just...’

  Before he could finish, the boys on the clearing gathered round. The lad who’d earlier urged him to play stepped forward, summoning his courage to address his father: ‘Uncle, we’re sorry. We made him play. It’s not his fault. Please don’t scold him.’

  Leo snapped his head up, eyes wide with astonishment—he’d never imagined anyone would speak for him. Those who usually mocked and bullied him would only kick him when he was down. Yet these unfamiliar youths were willing to defy his stern father for a wild boy they'd never met. A warm current quietly surged in his heart, drowning out some of his fear and replacing it with a flutter of anxious hope.

  His father glanced at the youths, then at Leo's tear-stained eyes and the longing he couldn't hide. His brow furrowed deeper, yet his tone softened slightly. ‘Hurry and drive the sheep home. Night is falling, and the field work isn't finished.’

  Leo froze. He'd expected his father to fly into a greater rage, to drag him away by force. Instead, his father merely ordered him to herd the sheep, making no further mention of football, nor did he strike or scold him. Instinctively, Leo glanced at the white ball lying on the open ground. It remained pristine white, glowing softly in the setting sun, as if silently beckoning him.

  ‘Uncle, let him play just a few more minutes! Only a few!’ the boys pleaded once more. ‘He's got real talent. Just give him a chance. We'll send him back straight away.’

  Talent? The word stirred something within Leo. He'd never imagined that a rough-and-ready lad like himself, who couldn't even kick a ball properly, could ever be associated with such a word. He glanced down at his rough hands and the shoes exposing his toes, and the familiar pang of self-doubt crept back in—how could he possibly have talent?

  His father fell silent for a moment, looking from Leo to the white ball on the empty field. Finally, he sighed in resignation. ‘Five minutes. After five minutes, you must herd the sheep home. No lingering.’ With that, he shouldered his hoe and turned towards the fields, casting one last glance back at Leo. The anger in his eyes had faded, replaced by a complex mix of emotions.

  Only when his father’s figure vanished behind the olive trees did Leo slowly exhale. His legs gave way, and he nearly collapsed to the ground. The fear, anxiety, and anticipation that had surged through him earlier now ebbed like a tide, leaving him utterly drained yet strangely exhilarated.

  ‘Come on over!’ the boys called, waving at him and handing him the white ball. ‘Here, have another go. Even though you missed earlier, it felt different. Try passing it to me.’

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  Leo clutched the ball, his fingertips still trembling—though this time, not from fear, but from anticipation and nervousness. He took a deep breath, walked to the centre of the clearing, and mimicked the boys by placing the ball on the ground, his gaze fixed on the youth not far away.

  He didn't know how to pass it, nor how much force to use. Guided only by the sensation from touching the ball moments before, he lifted his foot and gave it a gentle kick. The instant his foot made contact, a strange feeling washed over him—he seemed to sense the ball's weight, to foresee its trajectory. His body instinctively adjusted his stride and power, not clumsily at all, but with surprising fluidity.

  The ball didn't veer off course like before, but rolled steadily towards the boy. Its pace was neither too fast nor too slow, coming to rest precisely at his feet.

  ‘Blimey! You're brilliant!’ the other lads exclaimed in unison. ‘You kicked it wide just now, how did you manage such precision this time?’

  Leo himself was stunned. He looked down at his feet, then at the white ball, his eyes filled with bewilderment. He didn't know how he'd done it, only that playing football didn't seem particularly difficult—as if he'd been born with it. The instant his toes touched the ball, he sensed its trajectory; as his feet moved, they instinctively matched the ball's rhythm.

  This was his innate talent, one he hadn't yet recognised, ingrained in his very bones—that innate feel for the ball, that pitch instinct to anticipate its path, and that extraordinary physical coordination. In this moment, it quietly revealed a hint of its sharp edge, unassuming yet utterly astonishing.

  ‘Again! Again!’ the lads shouted excitedly, kicking the ball back to Leo.

  Leo drew a deep breath, hesitation gone. As the white ball rolled towards him, his feet shifted lightly, his body instinctively adjusting its stance to trap the ball firmly beneath his feet. No superfluous movement, not a trace of panic—as though he'd been playing football for years. He lifted his foot to pass once more, this time with even greater precision, the ball landing perfectly at the tip of the boy's boot.

  The lads erupted in excitement, crowding around him, cheering, inviting him to join their game. Leo was enveloped by the commotion, infected by their pure joy, gradually forgetting his fear, his self-doubt, his father's warnings, and even the passage of time.

  He ran, passed, and shot alongside the boys. Though his movements remained somewhat clumsy and he knew little of the rules, his innate feel for the ball allowed him to catch passes with precision, anticipate where the ball would land, and instinctively make the right move. He ran until sweat drenched his head, his shirt (borrowed from the lads, though ill-fitting) soaked through, yet he showed no sign of fatigue. His face bore the most radiant, most genuine smile he had ever known.

  The setting sun gradually sank westward, painting the sky a brilliant orange-red. The shadows of the olive trees grew ever longer. From the distant village came the calls of villagers returning home, and flocks of sheep began restlessly moving towards the settlement. Yet, Cleo remained utterly immersed in the world of football, as if the entire universe had shrunk to just him and that pure white ball.

  He forgot to return home, forgot his father's admonitions, forgot the farmwork in the fields, forgot that he was that neglected, mocked country lad. In this moment, he was simply a youth passionate about football, a lad freely pouring his fervour onto the pitch, chasing the light. That long-buried yearning, that love suppressed for far too long, was now utterly unleashed. Like a dazzling beam of light, it illuminated his otherwise grey world.

  Only when a cool evening breeze swept by, carrying the chill of dusk, did Leo jolt back to reality. He glanced up at the sky; darkness was settling in, the setting sun reduced to a faint glow. In the distant village, lights were already flickering on.

  ‘Oh no!’ Leo's heart lurched, a wave of panic washing over him. He remembered his father's warnings, the sheep still wandering aimlessly, the likely fury awaiting him at home.

  Without a word to the boys, he snatched the sheep whip from the ground and sprinted towards the flock like a madman. The flock had scattered considerably, some straying far onto distant field ridges, nibbling at olive saplings. As Leo herded them back, panic gripped him, his limbs trembling—he'd forgotten the time, forgotten the promise. This time, his father would certainly berate him harshly, forbid him from ever touching a football again, and extinguish this newly kindled flame within him.

  He drove the flock home, stumbling along, the boys' shouts fading behind him. That pure white ball still lay quietly in the clearing, glowing softly in the twilight. Leo's heart was torn: half filled with the joy and reluctance of having just played football, half consumed by fear and trepidation at his father's impending wrath.

  He had no idea what awaited him. All he knew was that he had fallen in love with that white ball, with the feeling of running across the pitch, with this hard-won joy. But did he, a wild lad who could barely scrape together enough to eat, truly deserve such happiness? Would his father forgive his tardiness? Could he ever touch that white ball again, feel that redeeming warmth once more?

  What he hadn't anticipated was that the moment he turned to herd the sheep, a man in a black coat emerged from behind an olive tree. His gaze fixed intently on the boy's retreating figure, then shifted to the white ball lying on the open ground. A meaningful smile touched the corners of his mouth—for he had witnessed it all. He had seen Leo's pass, his control of the ball, and glimpsed that innate talent hidden within the youth—a talent capable of astonishing the world.