The match dragged on. The sun climbed higher, spilling gold and heat over the playground. The air shimmered faintly above the dry ground.
The watcher stretched out his legs and leaned back against the rough bark. His shirt clung to his back, and his hair stuck slightly to his forehead. Still, he didn't move. Watching was enough.
The kids played like time didn't exist. Dust rose in waves, and every missed kick came with laughter loud enough to chase away boredom.
"Hey, brat!"
The familiar voice came from the house behind him — sharp, but not unfriendly.
He didn't turn immediately.
"You're daydreaming again, huh?" the woman called. "Come inside and have your breakfast before it turns into glue!"
That made him smile.
He finally turned his head. She stood in the doorway, one hand resting on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the glare. Her apron was smudged with flour, and stray strands of hair clung to her face. She looked tired but kind — the sort of tired that came from habit, not hardship.
"Did you hear me?" she called again.
"Yeah," he answered with a half-smile.
"Then move those legs!"
"In a bit!"
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath that he couldn't quite catch. Probably about lazy boys and cold breakfasts.
He chuckled softly, then looked back toward the field. Zit had fallen again — or maybe he threw himself on the ground for the drama of it. Either way, he lay there laughing, the sound of it so genuine that even the boys he played against began to laugh too.
The watcher folded his arms, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "He's impossible," he said, amused.
He didn't mean it badly. If anything, he admired the boy's endless supply of joy. Zit could lose a dozen times and still grin like he'd won the world. Maybe that's why everyone liked him so much. Maybe that's why he couldn't stop watching.
He let out a low sigh and tipped his head back, staring at the faded blue sky. The wind shifted, warm and dry, carrying the faint clang of a spoon hitting a pot. Breakfast was waiting.
The kids' laughter rolled on, bright and careless.
He glanced toward the house again. The woman was still standing there, arms crossed now, pretending to look stern.
"Five minutes!" he called.
"You said that ten minutes ago!" she shouted back, but there was laughter in her tone.
He smiled again, then looked toward the field one last time.
Zit was chasing the ball, his voice ringing through the air, wild and unbreakable.
The boy under the tree watched him, amused as ever, before finally standing up and brushing dust from his trousers.
He hadn't decided to go in yet — but he would, eventually.
For now, he lingered, just a little longer, watching the game, smiling to himself as the day stretched lazily ahead.