Carlo didn’t understand the technology. He only saw the static return. He looked at Marta, not with disappointment, but with gentle acceptance. “It’s okay,” he said. “I saw the goal. That’s all I needed.”

Her heart pounded. This wasn’t just software. It was a ghost.

“Papa,” she said, voice cracking. “It’s on.”

And on Saturday afternoons, the green text would return:

She dug out a dusty Compaq laptop from the closet. Windows 10. It was slow, but stable. She remembered a protocol—CCcam. A relic from the days when hobbyists shared decryption keys over the internet, like passing secret notes in a digital classroom. Most servers were dead. Most forums were gone.

Carlo leaned forward. His eyes, milky with age, reflected the dancing players. For two hours, he was not a sick old man in a quiet apartment. He was twenty-five again, in the Curva Sud, screaming for a goal.