Alex sat alone in the dark. He wasn't studying. He was thinking.
He held a football in his hands. It was scuffed, dirty, and old. It was a cheap training ball he had found in the back of the equipment shed.
"Memory," Alex whispered. "It is a ghost. It haunts you."
He spun the ball. He had won everything. The Ballon d'Or. The World Cup. The Treble.
But lately, he had been having dreams. Not dreams of lifting trophies. Dreams of the rain. Dreams of a cold Tuesday night in Brentford. Dreams of a whistle that never blew.
The door creaked open.
Mark walked in. He was wearing a headlamp (like a miner) and holding a ghost detector (a calculator taped to a stick).
"I DETECT ECTOPLASM!" Mark shouted, shining the light in Alex's face. "ALEX! ARE YOU A GHOST? IF YOU ARE, CAN YOU WALK THROUGH WALLS? I WANT TO ROB THE CANTEEN!"
"I am not a ghost, Mark," Alex said, shielding his eyes. "I am just thinking."
