Chapter 65: The Orphanage in Zagreb

"The match is over—Mostar Zrinjski defeats FK Nemetal 1–0!" "This match wasn't easy for Zrinjski. After losing their tall striker, Kosovic, they encountered many challenges in the heavy snow. Still, with relentless running, they managed to score a precious goal and finally ended their three-match winless streak, reclaiming their spot at the top of the standings." "The league has reached its 20th round, and now begins a long winter break—a time for Bosnian Premier League teams to rest and reset." "Our show will also take a three-month break. See you then, folks—and Merry Christmas in advance!" With that final commentary, Basodachi concluded half a season of football commentary. This season of the Bosnian Premier League had been full of ups and downs. First came Sarajevo's dominant run, then Zrinjski's successive wins. Currently, Mostar Zrinjski tops the league with a record of 15-3-2 and 48 points. Right behind them is FK Sarajevo with a 14-4-2 record and 46 points—just two behind the leaders. These two teams are the strongest contenders for the title. As the first half of the season ended, all clubs entered the winter break. After a brief team review, Zrinjski's coach Van stoyak immediately granted the team their holidays. "Packed your things?" Suker walked into the dorm, seeing Modric stuffing clothes into a suitcase. Compared to Suker's backpacker style, Modric's luggage was bulkier—one large suitcase and two backpacks. "Just about done!" Modric replied, patting his bags. Both were heading back to Croatia for the holidays. Modric hadn't been home in over a year—naturally, he was homesick. As for Suker, he hadn't returned in four years, ever since he came to Bosnia at age thirteen. Though he had no family in Croatia, the orphanage that raised him still held a deep emotional pull. Especially the old director who practically raised him—more like a parent than just a guardian. Unlike many orphans who came in halfway through life, Suker grew up entirely within the orphanage, and his ties to the place ran deep. While he wasn't yet a star, he had seen some success—and he felt it was time to return. Their train departed at 8 p.m. After dragging their luggage to the station, they boarded a train to Sarajevo, and from there, caught another train early the next morning to Zagreb. The whole journey took nearly 20 hours. A direct train would've been quicker, but the transfers and layovers made it long. By the time they arrived in Croatia's capital, Zagreb, it was around 3 p.m. "Finally home!" said Modric, beaming like a kid returning from summer camp. Suker looked around. Compared to four years ago, much had changed. The train station looked brand new. He remembered how people used to crawl under trains to save time, and the square outside had once been pockmarked with shell craters and ruined buildings—now it looked pristine. "So much has changed," Suker muttered. If not for the ugly statue in the center proclaiming "Croatia's Independence," he might have thought he was in the wrong place. "How are you getting home?" he asked. "My parents are picking me up," Modric replied. Suker nodded, then pointed to the right of the square. "I'm taking Bus No. 9." He handed Modric the orphanage's phone number in case anything came up, then slung on his backpack and headed off. Bus No. 9 ran across the city to the outskirts—territory Suker knew like the back of his hand. He paid the fare, found a seat, and hugged his backpack while gazing out the window. The winter sun was bright and warm. The city was clean and orderly. Were it not for the occasional ruined building or shell hole, it would be easy to forget the war ever happened. Suker closed his eyes slightly, letting the sunlight bathe him. The peacefulness of the moment was a stark contrast to the brutal past he had endured. Eventually, familiar scenes came into view. Two-story buildings, narrow streets, and a certain smell in the air told him he was close. The bus honked twice before pulling away, leaving Suker at the station, staring at a red cross in the distance. Below that cross lay the orphanage—his home. Walking along a familiar alley, he turned a few corners and arrived at a loose iron gate chained shut. He tugged it open just wide enough to squeeze through. The stone path beneath his feet was narrow and winding, flanked by neatly trimmed grass lawns. He followed it to an entrance door and stepped inside. The orphanage had three levels: the first for prayer and meals, the second for sleeping quarters, and the third reserved for the head director. Suker stopped in front of a door and peeked through the crack. A group of small children sat neatly at a long table, food in front of them—bread, milk, vegetables. None had started eating yet. Hands clasped under chins, they prayed in silence. At the head of the table stood a white-haired old man in priestly garb, gentle and kind-looking. He began: "We thank the Lord for this meal." The children echoed him after every line. When the prayer ended, they all crossed themselves. "Amen!" "Amen!" Suk, smiling, crossed himself outside the door. Then, suddenly, he burst in. "I'm back!!" The kids and old man jumped in shock. But soon, the director recognized him. "Suker?" The old man's voice was a mix of joy and irritation. "You didn't pray! It's Sunday!" "I already gave thanks. Can I eat now?" Suker strolled in casually, snatched a piece of bread, dipped it in honey, and devoured it in front of a drooling chubby orphan. "Life's good—honey and soup too!" He turned to the old director with a grin. "I'm back!" The director's stern expression faded. After a silent prayer, he said softly, "Good to have you back." Later, in the director's room on the third floor, the old man sat in his chair while Suker sat cross-legged on the floor. "I'm tearing it up in the Bosnian League! I'm a rising star now! You know Poschenocich the Croatian national player? Crushed him!" Suker boasted. "Don't worry, old man—I'll take care of you in your old age." The director smiled and nodded, saying nothing, just listening. Suker shared only the good news, skipping over the hunger and hardships he'd faced. What he didn't know was that Kovich, who had sent money to the orphanage, had already told the director everything—including Suker's "dirty laundry." The old director placed his frail hand on Suker's head. "Child, all of you are blessed by the Lord. You will be happy." Suker nodded eagerly. He stood and pointed outside. "Are those new kids?" The director grew serious. "Don't bully them." "Come on, I'm not a kid anymore," Suker laughed. "Where's our old crew?" The director nodded. "Locke went to England. Vinnie's in Seville. You're in Bosnia. Dikamochi stayed and became a novice priest." "Dikamochi?! A priest?" Suk was stunned. "Wasn't his dream to be a singer?" Dikamochi had a God-given voice. Every Christmas, he was the star performer—and a good one at that. Suker didn't expect that four years later, the guy would be a priest-in-training. "I'm proud of him," said the director. "I've already called him. He was thrilled to hear you're back and is on his way." Right on cue—BAM! A clean-faced teen, about 175 cm tall, wearing a novice priest's robe, burst into the room. "Suker!" "Dikamochi!" the director scolded. "Be composed!" Dikamochi took a deep breath, bowed slightly to the director, and turned to Suker. "Brother, let's not disturb the director's rest. Let's catch up outside." Though he spoke politely, he was clearly overjoyed. Suker was also laughing, calling out, "Old man, we're heading out!" "Don't stay up too late," the director said. "I'll prepare a room for him," Dikamochi added. The two rushed out excitedly. Watching their backs, the old director smiled warmly.