Number 05

Chapter 27 - Return to the Field

The sun hung low over Medellín, painting the city in streaks of orange and gold. Victoria walked slowly toward the field behind the coliseum, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. It had been weeks since she had last seen Tomás — weeks since the message that reminded her of where everything began. Her footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path, echoing in the quiet afternoon.

The field was empty now, still and waiting, bathed in the golden glow of sunset. The goalposts stood silently, the worn grass dotted with faint marks of previous games, and the benches along the sidelines bore the faint outline of paint, the number 05 still bright against the wood.

Victoria paused for a moment, letting herself take it all in. This place had witnessed so much — the first glance, the laughter, the accidental encounters, the subtle nods, the quiet practices, the fights, the celebrations. It had been the silent witness to a connection that had grown in small, deliberate ways, even when words had failed them.

She lowered herself onto the grass, letting the sketchbook rest on her knees. Her pencil moved almost instinctively, tracing the curve of the benches, the tall posts, the uneven grass, and the distant horizon where the city met the sky. She didn't draw him directly this time — he wasn't here, and she didn't need him to be. Instead, she drew the space that had held him, the field that had held them both, the place where two worlds had met and intertwined.

The memories came in flashes as she sketched:

The first accidental kick of the soccer ball against her bag, and the brief, startled look they had exchanged.

The long afternoons practicing alone, yet somehow feeling each other's presence across the field.

The Festival, the birthday bracelet, the fights and reconciliations, and the quiet understanding that had blossomed between them.

Her pencil moved faster now, capturing not just the physical space but the emotion embedded in it. She shaded lightly, giving depth to the empty field, letting the sunlight reflect off the benches as if it were still glowing with the energy of the moments they had shared.

Sitting there, she felt a strange mix of sadness and serenity. He was gone, pursuing his dreams, and the distance between them was real. But the memories, the small moments, the connection they had forged — those were hers to keep, permanent and unerasable.

Victoria paused, laying the pencil down, and let her gaze wander over the field. She imagined him standing by the goalpost, tossing the ball from hand to foot, his black eyes scanning the horizon, his focus unwavering. She imagined their conversations, the jokes, the teasing, the moments where they almost, but not quite, touched.

A soft breeze rustled through the grass, and she shivered slightly, pulling her hoodie tighter. The field was empty, yet she didn't feel alone. It held traces of him, traces of them, in the faded paint, the indentations in the grass, the lingering echo of laughter.

Victoria opened her sketchbook to the new page and wrote a single line beneath the drawing:

"Where it all began... and where it will always live."

She smiled faintly, letting the sun warm her face. Life moved forward, people changed, and dreams called them in different directions. But some places, some moments, some connections — they remained untouched by time, held in memory like a delicate, precious thread.

She lingered a little longer, standing and brushing the dirt from her jeans, taking one last look at the field. The city stretched endlessly beyond, alive and vibrant, yet here, in this quiet corner, everything felt suspended, timeless, perfect in its imperfection.

Victoria turned to leave, sketchbook under her arm, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. She walked back toward the path that led home, carrying with her not just the image of the field, but the weightless feeling of having loved and experienced something real.

Even if Tomás never returned, even if they never stood here together again, this place would always belong to both of them. And so would the memories — the beginnings, the laughter, the silent understanding, and the quiet, unfinished moments that had shaped her heart forever.

As she disappeared into the streets of Medellín, the sunset cast long shadows over the field, painting the number 05 across the benches in warm gold. The field waited patiently, as if it had known all along that this story, though paused, would never truly end.

Victoria glanced back once more, whispered a quiet thank you to the place that had held it all, and walked forward into the city, sketchbook clutched to her chest.