Then, Jorge spoke. Not through the stadium mic filter. Through a phone line. Tinny. Distant.

I started a match against Atlético Madrid. The new voices kicked in.

I paused. That wasn't in the script. That wasn't banter. That was narrative . I shrugged—maybe Easter eggs. I resumed.

“Sí, Andrés. Como el café: pequeño, pero potente.”

“¡Gol! ¡Golazo! ¡Papá, lo hicimos!”

And from my TV speakers—not my headphones, not the game audio—came the original, discarded recordings. A boy and his father, laughing, calling fake matches in their living room. The father’s voice was Jorge’s. The boy’s voice was Andrés’s.

Jorge: “El niño. El que se fue antes de tiempo.”

“Tú también los escuchaste. Los viejos comentarios. Los que sonaban falsos. Los que no sentían nada.”