Alone in the Stands. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The seats were empty, echoing only the hum of the city beyond the walls. He sat in the middle row — not too high, not too low — just where the silence feels honest. The concrete beneath him was still cool from the morning, and the faint scent of grass from the pitch drifted upward, sharp and familiar. His eyes lingered on the field below, tracing the faded white lines that marked boundaries and beginnings. But he wasn’t really seeing the field. He was seeing versions of himself that had once moved across it — the boy who tripped on his first touch, the teenager who missed the open net, the young man who doubted if he even belonged here at all.
