As the years passed, Ryo understood that it was hard to do many things in modern society as a blind person. Many things that others take for granted require an enormous amount of effort from him. He learned this the hard way, as the simplest tasks were arduous.
At first, he could barely take care of his nighttime routine by himself, let alone more complex tasks like cooking, shopping, or riding a bike. So for a while, Ryo was trying out new things, with what little money he had, hoping to find something that could fulfill him.
Eventually, he settled into a rhythm. His days were often filled with the rich narratives of audiobooks, each story painting vibrant landscapes in his mind, or he would listen to the news, noting how the vapid cesspool of politics runs the world.
His deep immersion in learning was one of his remarkable talents; his lack of eyesight eventually heightened his auditory senses, allowing him to retain information with an uncanny degree of accuracy.
Besides his intellectual endeavors, Ryo also acquired an interest in music. His fingers ritualistically tracing the scroll of a violin before each time he played, or his hands softly levitating over the keys of a piano. Ryo's house was often filled with his graceful melodies, the sound reverberating into every room.
Though these hobbies were of great interest to him, Ryo didn't realize a key part of his soul lay dormant. Not until he discovered the exhilarating, unpredictable world of football.
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It all started when Ryo was twelve years old, in the hot summer of 2034. With his parents not home, Ryo's older brother, Ren, was watching TV. Every few minutes, Ren's shouts and cheers could be heard echoing through the house.
Ryo would usually ignore the commotion of his carefree brother, but this peculiar day, though, Ryo had already spent quite a lot of time listening to books. In addition to the fact that the air was unbelievably hot and humid, Ryo went out into the living room to get some fresh air.
"Hey, Ren-nii, what are you watching?" Ryo asked as he stepped into the living room. He didn't need to feel along the walls or count his steps anymore; every inch of their house lived in his memory.
"The World Cup," Ren replied dejectedly.
"Japan's playing?" Ryo asked, more out of courtesy than real interest. He had never followed football himself, but he knew how much Ren cared for it.
He would go out often to play with his friends and was a part of the football team at their school. Ryo knew that Ren had never missed watching a single game played by the Japanese National Team. He was such a diehard fan that he would travel across the world to see their games if he could.
"It's the sixtieth minute," Ren muttered. "One–one against France, and they just scored."
Ryo lowered himself onto the couch beside him, feeling the old cushions dip under his weight, the crude wooden frame squeaking as a result. "That's rough. Hopefully Japan can pull ahead."
Ryo listened to the rest of the match besides Ren and comforted him when Japan ended up losing in the penalty shootouts. Japan only scored one penalty while France scored three, securing their spot in the semifinals. Ren was hopeful that Japan would win this year, but now he had to wait four more years before he could cheer them on again.
Despite his best efforts, Ryo couldn't lift his brother's spirits. Just as he was about to give up, an idea came to him. He hurried into the bedroom they shared, feeling along the dresser towards Ren's football gear, until his hands found the spherical shape of Ren's football.
When he returned to the living room, he held it out with both hands. "Teach me how to play football, Ren-nii."
"Huh? How do…" Ren's voice trailed off. He didn't want to finish that sentence. After a moment, he asked quietly, "Why do you want to learn?"
"Ren-nii's sad that Japan lost," Ryo said matter-of-factly. "So if I get good enough, I can win the World Cup and make nii-san happy."
Ren's breath hitched, and for a moment the room was silent. And in this moment, Ryo couldn't see it, but his brother's eyes brimmed with tears.
"…Okay," Ren said at last, voice heavy. "I'll teach you."
From that day on, football became part of their routine. Every afternoon, Ren would lead Ryo out to the pitch. He'd place his hands on the goalposts, walk him along the sidelines, and guide him through the space until Ryo could picture the field in his head. They practiced touches, passes, movement—everything Ren knew. What began as lessons soon became the rhythm of their days, the game bringing them together more tightly than anything else.
So, for his birthday that November, Ren surprised Ryo with a football unlike any other. The ball jingled faintly with every shift and roll, its sound carrying through the room.
"It's so you can always find it," Ren said, watching as Ryo slightly shook it.
Naturally, after testing it out on the pitch, some parts of the game became easier than before. Dribbling felt clumsy at first, his foot missing the ball more often than not, but little by little, he learned to pass, to shoot, and to cross. Ren adapted every part of the game for Ryo. He would tap along the outline of the goal so Ryo could gauge the distance and his angle to the goal. He strapped tiny bells to his own body, the jingling marking him as they practiced dribbling and defense.
Day after day, their new routine continued, and Ryo progressively got better. However, unlike Ryo's growth, his brother experienced a permanent setback.
One night, Ren returned home from a school tournament injured, his voice tight with pain, and he laughed, saying it would go back to normal soon. However, once he healed, he was plagued with a painful limp; any excessive movement would cause immense pain.
Both the coach and the doctor said he couldn't play seriously anymore. Yet, what should have been devastating for Ren didn't seem that bad to him. Watching as his blind brother, with many disadvantages in his life, was always striving to be better, Ren couldn't be sad.
The next day, very early in the morning, Ren dragged Ryo out of bed, passing him his football.
"If I can't play," Ren said, "then I'll make you into the best player in the world."
So he kept teaching, even if only from the sidelines. Ryo grew sharper with every practice. He could almost believe his brother when Ren teased that he was good enough for a league. But deep down, they both knew the truth.
The leagues would never strap bells to their players. No one would pound the goalposts so he could hear the frame. No referee would allow a ball that rattled with every kick. Ryo knew he couldn't play their way.
Still, in those days, chasing after the jingling ball, hearing his brother's laughter beside him, Ryo thought he didn't need the world's approval. Football wasn't just a game. It was Ren's dream—and it had become his as well.