When the night thinned into 3 a.m., people began to drift. They embraced like people who had rehearsed the ritual months in advance. Cem took one final look at the projector's blank wall before the cords were wound away. Justin lingered, lights from the city framing his silhouette like a backdrop. He offered Cem a small smile, one that promised continuity rather than finality.
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Late in stoppage time, a run broke the rhythm. The home side’s striker—a wiry figure with a name that felt like a promise—slipped between defenders. The terrace inhaled. The ball curled as if remembering an old axiom and nestles in the net with the soft, final sound of things concluded. The terrace exploded, chairs scraping, chants racing, a morass of raised hands and wet faces. Justin’s voice cracked on the exclamation. Someone lifted the teenager onto their shoulders and ran him around as if the watch party had become a procession. Justin lingered, lights from the city framing his