The letter came in a plain white envelope, sealed with the emblem of Beldora's National Football Federation. It arrived at Garen's training ground one crisp autumn morning, slipped quietly into the mail tray among invoices and schedules. When Kellan's coach handed it to him, there was no announcement, no ceremony — just a knowing smile.
"Open it," the coach said.
Kellan tore the envelope carefully. Inside was a single sheet of paper. The words were few but powerful: You have been selected to represent the Beldoran U21 National Team.
For a moment, he just stared at the page. It wasn't disbelief he felt, but stillness — the kind that comes when a long-imagined dream finally takes shape. He folded the letter and slipped it into his bag without saying much. Later, during training, his teammates surrounded him with congratulations. "Our golden boy," one of them teased, but Kellan only smiled faintly. Inside, his mind was already preparing.
That night, he sat by his window as the wind brushed against the glass. The lights of Garen shimmered in the distance. He thought of everything that had led him here — the endless drills, the quiet nights in dorm rooms, the foster family who couldn't understand him. And now, the chance to wear the red and gold of his country. It felt unreal.
The first training camp took place in the capital city of Velburg, where the federation's headquarters stood among gray concrete towers. The air smelled faintly of rain and car exhaust. Players from across Beldora gathered there — the best from every academy, all confident, all eager to impress.
Kellan arrived early. He stepped off the bus, bag over his shoulder, scanning the complex with quiet curiosity. Around him, other players laughed and greeted each other. Many already knew one another from past selections. He felt like an outsider again, though he had grown used to that feeling.
The first training session began with intensity. The coach, a stern man with a deep voice, demanded speed and focus. "National football is faster," he said. "Every second counts. You hesitate, you lose."
Kellan didn't hesitate. He adapted. Within minutes, he began reading the rhythm of the session, anticipating passes, filling spaces, orchestrating play as if he had been there all along. His intelligence stood out even in this new environment. He didn't speak much, but when he moved, others followed.
After the first week, the coach pulled him aside. "You play like you've seen this all before," he said. "But you haven't, have you?"
"No," Kellan replied. "I just think before I move."
The coach smiled. "Then keep thinking."
The matches that followed were tests of composure. International play was faster, more physical, more tactical. Opponents pressed high, defenders closed space quickly. Yet Kellan thrived. He found comfort in the speed, in the challenge of adapting. The roar of the crowd didn't distract him — it became part of the rhythm.
During his debut match for the Beldoran U21 team, he entered as a substitute in the second half. The score was level, the pace frantic. Within ten minutes, he made his mark — intercepting a pass, turning smoothly, and threading a diagonal ball that split two defenders and led to a goal. The stadium erupted. His teammates swarmed the scorer, but Kellan simply jogged back to midfield, eyes steady, heart calm.
That night, journalists called him the quiet maestro. The nickname spread quickly. But Kellan didn't care for names or attention. After the game, while others celebrated, he sat in the locker room, untying his boots slowly, thinking about every pass he could have played better.
At home, Henrik and Alena watched the broadcast on their old television. When the camera focused briefly on Kellan's calm expression after the assist, Alena smiled softly. "He looks the same," she said. "Just older."
Henrik nodded. "He always plays like he's solving something."
Over the following months, Kellan's presence in the national setup grew. Coaches trusted him, teammates looked to him for composure. When the senior national team staff attended training sessions, they often lingered near his drills. He didn't notice them — or rather, he pretended not to. His focus remained the same: small details, steady improvement.
Yet, beneath the discipline, something inside him stirred — pride, quiet but deep. Wearing the national colors carried a weight he had never felt before. When he stood during the anthem before matches, eyes lifted toward the flag, he felt the years collapse into that moment: the muddy pitches of Dronen, the cold nights at Grenn, the rejection, the endless repetition. It all gathered into a single truth — that every hardship had purpose.
One evening, after a friendly match abroad, the team bus rolled through a foreign city's empty streets. Most of the players slept or laughed softly at the back. Kellan sat by the window, headphones in, the lights flickering across his face. He looked out at the passing world and thought about the quiet boy he used to be.
He realized that he hadn't changed as much as he thought. The silence, the reflection, the obsession with improvement — they were still there, just channeled into something larger. For the first time, he wasn't playing only for himself. He was playing for something that reached beyond him — for every quiet boy who dreamed without shouting, for every small town where greatness seemed distant.
When the bus stopped at the hotel, he stayed seated for a moment longer. He reached into his bag, took out his notebook, and wrote one line: The flag is heavy, but silence carries it steady.
He closed it, slipped it back, and followed his teammates into the night.
He had worn the colors of his country — and they fit him perfectly.