Chapter 504: Soone, Sowhere, Faraway
Izan had just slurped a mouthful when his phone buzzed across the table.
A call.
He wiped his fingers on a napkin and glanced at the screen.
No na, just a Spanish country code and the tag Madrid.
He t Olivia’s eyes briefly, then accepted the call.
“Hola?” he answered, voice calm but curious.
Izan held the phone to his ear, expecting static or a misdial.
No one spoke at first.
The silence stretched just long enough that he lowered the phone to glance at the number again, his thumb hovering near the red button.
And then—
“Izan,” ca a familiar voice, steady and clipped. “It’s Pablo Amo.”
He straightened a little, instantly more alert. “Coach.”
“Just wanted to check in. When are you arriving at the Las Rozas base? So of the boys are flying in tonight.”
Izan paused.
The noodles in his bowl had already begun to cool. Olivia looked over, her smile fading slightly as she noticed the change in his posture.
“I’ll be there the day before the match,” he said after a mont, his tone more subdued than before.
“There’s so family stuff I need to handle first.”
Amo didn’t respond imdiately.
The line went quiet again, but this ti with weight.
“You know, arriving just the day before might rule you out of the first ga, right? Jet lag, rhythm, prep—we need at least a session out of you.”
“I understand,” Izan said softly.
“It’s fine. I don’t think I’ll be start after that anyway.”
“Huh?” Pablo Amo inquired from the other side of the line, but Izan didn’t say anything.
Amo let out a quiet breath.
“Alright. I’ll inform the man in charge and the others if they ask. See you then.”
The call ended without ceremony.
Izan set his phone face down on the floor and leaned back slightly, eyes on the half-empty bowl.
“You okay?” Olivia asked gently.
He nodded, then offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah.”
—
Las Rozas, Madrid.
The golden sunlight filtering through the trees around Spain’s national training complex lent a warm glow to the windows of the coaching offices.
Inside, Pablo Amo stood beside a desk, arms folded, recounting the call to Luis de la Fuente, who sat in a black leather chair flipping through a match report.
“So he’ll only be arriving the night before the first ga,” Amo said, scratching his jaw.
Luis frowned, closing the file. “What’s the reason?”
“Said it was family-related. He didn’t give much more than that.”
The head coach leaned back slightly, thoughtful.
His gaze drifted to the mobile phone on his desk.
After a beat of contemplation, he picked it up and scrolled slowly through his contact list until he landed on a na: Izan’s Agent.
He tapped the screen and brought it to his ear.
It rang once, then twice, and then a third followed before the click sound ca.
“Miranda speaking.”
“Señorita Miranda, good afternoon. Luis de la Fuente here.”
His voice was calm but polite, cautious even.
“I hope you don’t mind reaching out.”
“Not at all,” Miranda replied, though there was a slight edge and a curious tone to her voice.
“I just spoke with Pablo Amo,” Luis continued.
“He said Izan will be arriving a day before the match. I don’t an to pry, but I was wondering… what family matter would keep him away so close to a match window?”
Miranda went quiet for a mont.
Then she blinked—sothing Komi had told her a while ago snapped into focus.
“Oh,” she breathed, tone softening. “I see.”
Luis waited patiently.
“It’s the tenth anniversary of his father’s death,” Miranda said, voice even and respectful.
“He hasn’t talked about it much, but… it ans sothing to him. This ti of year always does. He won’t say it outright, but he’s… dealing with it.”
Luis’s brow softened as the weight of her words settled in.
“He wouldn’t mind you knowing,” she added after a pause.
“But I think he’d rather it didn’t go further than this.”
“Understood,” Luis replied solemnly. “Thank you for telling .”
The call ended a mont later.
Luis set the phone down gently and sat in silence, his fingers laced together as he leaned forward on the desk.
Across the room, Pablo Amo gave him a questioning glance.
“We give him the ti,” Luis said at last. “No questions. No pressure.”
Amo nodded, and the room fell into quiet understanding.
………………
The cabin floated in silence, the quiet hum of the engines threading through the space like a lullaby.
Izan sat by the window, earbuds in, his head leaning gently against the cool plastic panel.
Outside, dusk had begun its slow descent, bathing the sky in fading golds and bruised purples.
He tapped play, and the music unfurled like smoke.
Je te laisserai des mots
I’ll leave you words.
En dessous de ta porte
Underneath your door
En dessous des murs qui chantent
Beneath the singing walls
Tout près de la place où tes pieds passent
Right near the spot where your feet pass
Cachés dans les trous de ton divan
Hidden in the holes of your couch
Et quand tu es seule pendant un instant
And when you are alone for a mont
Ramasse-moi quand tu voudras
Pick up whenever you’d like
Embrasse-moi quand tu voudras
Kiss whenever you’d like
Ramasse-moi quand tu voudras
Pick up whenever you’d like
As the last note faded into silence, Izan blinked slowly.
The world outside the plane had changed again.
The sky now wore its sadness like velvet, deep, warm, endless.
The sun, lting at the horizon, had stained the clouds into shapes that looked like burning cotton candy—soft and sharp all at once.
Beside him, Olivia’s head slipped gently against his shoulder.
She had fallen asleep, curled quietly under the weight of the journey.
Her hair fell across his hoodie, and her breathing, steady and warm, anchored him like a heartbeat.
Izan didn’t move.
He looked at her for a long, wordless mont.
His expression, so often sharp with ambition or dulled by fatigue, softened—quiet pride, affection, and sothing older than either: grief, tad but never gone.
He turned back to the window, his fingers resting lightly against hers, and watched the sky burn its way into darkness.
…………….
“Thanks for the ride,” Izan said to the driver after they got off in front of the house in Paterna.
The gravel path to the front door of the house in Paterna crunched softly beneath their shoes.
The evening sun cast a long, golden light across the painted walls, and despite the jet lag tugging at his eyes, Izan felt lighter with every step.
He raised his hand and knocked—three familiar taps.
There was a distant shuffle, a rumble of hurried footsteps, sothing being knocked over, and then the door creaked open.
Hori stood there, a little breathless, a little taller, the sa glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Izan!” he bead, but before Izan could open his arms for a hug, Hori darted forward, not toward him, but to Olivia, grabbing the handle of her bag.
“I’ll take this.”
Izan blinked. “Wait—wait—why? You’re taking her bag?”
Hori didn’t miss a beat, even as he tugged Olivia’s roller case over the threshold.
“I thought you said you didn’t like that Olivia got to stay with in London,” Izan added, lifting his own bag with a squint.
Hori smirked and straightened his back, mimicking so kind of regal composure.
“Mom says I should always be nice to my in-laws, so why not start now?” she said, nodding in the direction of Olivia, who stood there blushing.
Before Izan could protest—or laugh—Komi’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
“And you should be extra nice if they bring back good chocolate!”
She erged, wiping her hands on a towel, cheeks flushed from heat or happiness—probably both.
Right behind her was Miranda, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Izan and Olivia froze on instinct.
Miranda didn’t say a word—just walked a slow circle around them like a hawk assessing new arrivals.
She gave Olivia an arch look before glancing at Izan’s unzipped duffel.
“When did you get here?” Olivia finally asked, recovering her voice.
“I’m not even surprised,” Izan muttered under his breath.
“I think she sleeps in the attic and just sends her secret twin sister to deal with .”
Komi let out a cackle from the hallway, still halfway back to the kitchen.
“You two, drop your stuff. Dinner’s ready. I even made proper arroz al horno—not that lazy version I do when I’m tired.”
As the scent of roasted at and spices wafted from the kitchen, the house blood with warmth and chatter.
The four won—Komi, Miranda, Olivia, and even young Hori, who hovered near them with a prideful grin—were already deep in discussion about sothing by the ti Izan made for the stairs.
He turned at the base, glancing over his shoulder.
There it was—that hum of conversation, a gentle lightness that had filled the ho again.
Despite everything.
Despite the anniversary.
Komi, who had loved his father, and Hori, who never got the chance to rember him, hadn’t let the grief fill the air.
A small, grateful smile tugged at Izan’s lips as he climbed the stairs slowly, the sound of voices growing fainter as he entered his old room.
Familiar shelves, old posters, a ss of notes pinned to a corkboard he hadn’t touched in a while.
His eyes landed on the photograph on the table beside the bed.
A simple fra.
A man with the sa sharp nose, the sa blue eyes, caught mid-laughter in a sumr sowhere far gone.
Izan walked to it, picked it up.
The glass was cool beneath his fingers.
He looked up, caught himself in the mirror beside it.
Sa stare. Sa eyes.
He lingered for a mont.
Then nodded once, almost to himself, before setting the fra back down.
A quiet breath escaped his chest as he turned and headed downstairs.
Dinner waited. And for now, so did peace.
A/N: Sorry for the late release. This chapter was really fun and a bit sad for . Have fun reading and I’ll see you with the first of the next day.
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