Three days passed since the late-night search.
Adrien had stopped looking for Elias Ravn. Not because he had lost interest—but because the fragments were driving him toward something he didn't want to face. The flickering records. The missing photos. The way reality seemed to bend around the old man's name.
Better to focus on football.
But football had changed.
---
The morning training session started like any other.
Adrien lined up on the left, drifted inside, received the ball. He looked up—and waited for the vision.
Nothing.
No passing lanes. No premonition of the defender's weight shift. No silent whisper of where the space would open.
Just the ball. Just the pitch. Just the ordinary game.
He passed. Simple. Safe. The ball found Haug's feet.
Fine. It doesn't have to trigger every time.
But it didn't trigger on the next possession either. Or the next.
Adrien played without the ability for the entire drill. He completed his passes, moved into space, tracked back on defense. But everything felt slower. Harder. Like he had been running with the wind at his back, and now the wind had died.
By the end of the session, his legs were heavy, his mind foggy. Not from the vision—from the absence of it.
He had forgotten what it felt like to play without it.
---
During the water break, Adrien stood apart, pressing his fingers against his temples.
Come on. Show me something.
Nothing.
Haug walked over, bottle in hand. "You look lost."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Your touches are heavy. Your decisions are slow. What's wrong?"
Adrien wanted to explain. There's this thing—this ability—and when it works, I see everything. When it doesn't, I'm just… me.
But he couldn't say that. So he just shook his head.
"Didn't sleep well."
Haug studied him, unconvinced. But he didn't push. "Match in two days. Get your head right."
He walked away.
Adrien stared at the pitch. The lines were the same. The goals were the same. But without the vision, it felt like a different sport.
---
The afternoon session was a tactical scrimmage.
The coach emphasized quick transitions—win the ball, move it forward, create chances. Adrien started on the left, same as always.
The first five minutes were brutal.
He received the ball in space. His instinct was to pause, to wait for the vision to show him the pass. But the vision didn't come. He hesitated too long. A defender closed in. Adrien tried to dribble—lost the ball.
"Vauclair! Faster!" the coach barked.
Next possession. He received it again. No vision. He passed immediately—too quickly, without looking. The ball went straight to an opponent.
"Vauclair!"
Adrien clenched his jaw. What's happening to me?
---
The scrimmage continued. Adrien's performance deteriorated.
Without the ability, he was ordinary. Not terrible—his technique was still solid, his fitness still good. But ordinary wasn't enough. Not for a starting spot. Not for the attention he had started to attract.
In the eighteenth minute, he received the ball on the edge of the box. A half-chance. The defender was slow to close. A few weeks ago, the vision would have shown him the shooting lane—or the pass, or the dummy. Now there was nothing.
He shot. The ball sailed wide.
The coach didn't even shout. Just sighed.
---
After training, Adrien stayed on the pitch.
He took a ball to the far corner, away from the emptying locker room, and ran drills. Simple drills. The same ones he had done before the old man appeared. Dribbling. Passing. Shooting.
The ball moved. He moved. But there was no magic. No extra layer of perception.
Without the ability, what am I?
He had been a failed prospect at Rennes. A nepotism product. A flop. That was before the old man, before the stone, before the visions.
Am I still that player?
Adrien kicked the ball hard against the fence. It rebounded, hit his shin, rolled away.
He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin.
The ability doesn't make me better. It just shows me what I could be.
But if it didn't trigger—if it faded, like it had for Elias Ravn—then what was left?
Just a boy with a broken promise and a father's ghost.
---
That night, Adrien sat at his desk, the stone in front of him.
He picked it up, turned it over, held it to the light.
E. Ravn.
Did this happen to you? Did the visions come and go? Did you learn to play without them? Or did you just… rely on them until they consumed you?
He set the stone down and opened his laptop.
Searched: "Elias Ravn training without vision"
Nothing.
Searched: "Elias Ravn decline"
One result. A blog post, years old, written by someone who claimed to have seen Ravn play in person.
"I watched him in 1993, near the end. He was still good—but different. Hesitant. Like he was waiting for something that never came. A friend of mine, a journalist, said Ravn told him: 'The game used to sing to me. Now it's just noise.' He retired a year later."
The game used to sing to me. Now it's just noise.
Adrien closed the laptop.
He sat in the dark for a long time, the stone cold in his palm.
---
The next morning, Adrien arrived at training before anyone else.
He didn't wait for the vision. Didn't hope for it. He just played.
One touch. Two touches. Pass. Move.
Simple. Ordinary. Human.
The ability didn't trigger. Not once.
But by the end of the session, Adrien had completed most of his passes. Lost possession only twice. Created nothing spectacular—but held his own.
When the coach gathered them for the post-training talk, his eyes lingered on Adrien.
"Better today," he said. "Keep playing simple."
Adrien nodded.
Simple. That's all I have without it.
---
That night, Adrien stood by the window, looking out at the dark pitch.
The stone was on the nightstand. The photograph beside it.
Without it… what am I?
He didn't have an answer.
But he knew one thing: he couldn't depend on the ability. Couldn't wait for it to save him. Because one day, it might not come.
And on that day, he would have to play anyway.
Adrien turned away from the window, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, there was a match.
And he would play—whether the vision came or not.