Saturday, December 10, 2022

Demien's Apartment, Bergamo

5:47 AM

Morning came early with alarms cutting through the darkness, and Demien woke to the sound of the shower running while pale light came through the curtains, and his body moved slowly as he stood and stretched while testing his leg's response to weight.

The stiffness was present but manageable and had improved over the past weeks, and he dressed in comfortable travel clothes before moving to the bathroom where Sophia was already finishing her routine, and they moved around each other with the efficiency of people who'd shared space long enough to develop patterns.

Bags were lifted and carried to the door, and Isabella was already awake despite the hour and had made coffee that she pressed into their hands with instructions to be careful and to call when they landed, and her worry was clear even as she smiled while hugging them both.

The driver was waiting downstairs when they emerged from the building—one of Sophia's father's cars with tinted windows—and the man behind the wheel was the same driver who'd driven them before, silent as he loaded their bags into the trunk.

They collected one of Sophia's friends along the way—Elena, a model Demien had met briefly at a fashion event months ago—and her presence filled the car with conversation and occasional laughter that cut through the early morning stillness, and the dynamic shifted from quiet contemplation to something lighter as Elena asked questions about Qatar and about the final and about whether they thought Messi could actually pull it off.

The city faded behind them as the highway opened and the airport came into view, and traffic was light for a Saturday morning while the sky slowly brightened from dark blue to pale orange, and within thirty minutes they were pulling into the departure terminal where other travelers moved with purpose toward their gates.

Linate Airport, Milan

7:12 AM

Inside the terminal things moved quickly because they'd arrived early enough to avoid the worst of the morning rush, and Demien moved through security while keeping weight off his right leg when possible, and Sophia stayed close without being obvious about helping while Luca handled the bags.

The boarding passes were already on their phones and the security line moved steadily, and within twenty minutes they were through and walking toward the departure gates where shops and cafes were just opening for the day.

A young kid noticed Demien first while they walked past a coffee shop—maybe ten years old with an Atalanta scarf wrapped around his neck—and the boy's eyes widened before he nudged his father's arm while pointing.

The father looked up from his phone and recognition crossed his face immediately, and after a brief hesitation he approached with his son trailing behind while other travelers continued past without noticing.

"Excuse me," the father said in Italian, "are you Demien Walter?"

Demien stopped and turned while managing a smile, and he nodded once, "Yes."

The boy stepped forward immediately with excitement written across his face, and his words came quickly in that way children had when meeting someone they admired, "Can I get a picture? And an autograph? I have your shirt at home!"

"Of course," Demien said, and he stood while the father pulled out his phone and the boy positioned himself beside Demien, and the picture was taken with the boy grinning while Demien's smile stayed genuine despite the circumstances.

The autograph came next on a boarding pass the father produced, and Demien signed it with the pen offered while the boy watched every movement, and when he finished the boy took it while his father thanked them for their time.

"I can't wait to see you back on the pitch," the boy said suddenly, and his eyes were earnest, "because you're my favorite player."

"Thank you," Demien replied, and he meant it more than he showed, "I'll be back soon."

The father guided his son away with one hand on his shoulder while the boy kept looking back and waving, and Demien watched them disappear into the crowd before turning back to where Sophia and Luca were waiting nearby.

"That was sweet," Sophia said quietly while they continued toward the gate.

"Yeah," Demien agreed, and the encounter had shifted something in his chest—a reminder that people beyond his immediate circle cared about his recovery, that the absence mattered to more than just himself.

Gate B7

8:04 AM

At the gate the noise softened as they found seats near the window where planes lined up outside on the tarmac, and the morning light was fully established while ground crews moved around the aircraft.

Luca joked about the seat assignments and about how they'd managed to get three seats together despite booking last minute, and Elena scrolled through her phone while occasionally showing Sophia something that made them both laugh, and the atmosphere was lighter than it had been in the apartment or the car.

Sophia squeezed Demien's hand while they sat there, and her grip was firm without being excessive, and no words were necessary because the gesture said everything that needed saying—that she was there, that this was happening, that they were moving forward together.

The boarding announcement came over the speakers at eight-fifteen in Italian first and then English, and passengers began standing and gathering their belongings while forming a queue near the gate entrance, and within minutes the line was moving steadily as people filed down the jetway toward the aircraft.

When their section was called they stood together and joined the flow, and Demien moved carefully while his right leg cooperated enough to avoid limping noticeably, and they passed through the gate and down the narrow corridor where the plane waited.

The chapter ended as Demien stepped onto the aircraft with Sophia and Luca beside him, and the cabin stretched ahead with rows of seats and overhead compartments and the familiar smell of recycled air, and he found his seat near the window and settled in while the attendants began their pre-flight routines.

Outside the window the tarmac stretched toward the terminal building, and ground crew members moved between aircraft while the morning sun climbed higher, and Bergamo was somewhere behind them—the apartment and the rehab rooms and the quiet afternoons watching football on television—and ahead was Qatar and the World Cup final and movement after weeks of standing still.

Not healed yet, but no longer frozen.

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