That single simple sentence sent all the children cheering in delight.
To many families in this neighborhood, a ticket to Anfield was an unthinkable luxury.
Some households couldn't even afford pay TV; on weekends, they could only huddle around an old radio, listening to the commentator describe the match.
Getting to watch a match in person—treated by a youth academy lad, no less—felt like a dream come true to them.
Sarah crossed her arms and watched quietly, a smile playing on her lips.
She found this quiet Asian boy truly special—not just because of his background, but because of the genuine sincerity he carried.
Whatever he did, he approached it with earnest, heartfelt dedication.
Even when interacting with younger children.
She truly hoped Du An would rise above his hardships, put on a Liverpool shirt for real, and step onto the professional pitch.
She knew little about the hierarchy of the youth teams, but any kid who made it into Kirkby was bound to be exceptional.
Liam paused in what he was doing as well, gazing at the boy encircled by the little red-shirted figures, a smile touching his face.
This city's passion had always been like this—passed down from generation to generation, never fading.
Looking at the spark in Du An's eyes, Liam felt as if he were looking at himself more than a decade ago, equally brimming with zeal for the future, equally holding Anfield as his ultimate goal.
He silently made a wish in his heart, hoping this boy could go further—much further.
To finish walking the road he himself had lost to injury all those years ago.
The rest of the session turned into pure joy.
Du An mingled among the kids, organizing small-sided matches, occasionally stepping in for a kick or two while deliberately slowing his pace to jog alongside them.
He found himself speaking more and more, reminding the children of their positioning.
He shouted "Brilliant!" whenever a youngster delivered a good pass.
Whenever someone tripped and fell, he reached out a hand to pull them up.
Surrounded by the crowd, he smiled with genuine delight, hardly even realizing it himself.
Ever since he started playing football, he had been smiling much more when he was out.
In the past,
he had only ever let his guard down and smiled in front of his grandmother and Ethan.
Now, however, out on the pitch and among the children, he could feel that lighthearted, heartfelt joy.
At midday, the event wrapped up right on schedule.
Parents took their children by the hand and gradually began to leave.
Some gave Du An an appreciative nod; others tapped their kids on the shoulder, telling them to say goodbye to Big Brother Du An.
The small figures drifted away in twos and threes, and quiet soon returned to the pitch.
Watching it all, Du An felt an immense sense of fulfillment.
Once they had tidied everything up, Sarah and Liam said their goodbyes.
Liam also said to Du An, "Keep at it, lad. I hope I can go to Anfield one day to watch you play."
Du An patted his chest. "No problem!"
Sarah hailed a taxi, and the two climbed in to head back to the shop.
On the way, looking at the street scenery outside the window, she remarked casually, "Don't look down on that rowdy bunch right now. The next Gerrard or the next Fowler might just be hiding in there. The club runs community scouting events every year, and academy coaches come down to pick out prospects. Anyone with talent gets a trial at Kirkby. Liverpool has always belonged to the people of Liverpool."
Her tone carried a touch of wistfulness: "Though things have changed in recent years. It's rare for a Kirkby lad to break into the first team now, and there are more and more foreign players in the squad. Even the manager is Spanish."
Du An said softly, "Manager Benitez did lead the team to the Champions League title."
"He won the trophy, sure, but it's been all downhill since then." Sarah curled her lip, not pressing the matter further.
Supporters' judgments of a manager had never been complicated.
Praise them when results were good, slate them when results were poor—there was no rhyme or reason to it, and past glories bought only a sliver of extra patience.
She shifted the topic, looking at Du An: "How did today's session feel? Tired?"
"Not tired." Du An shook his head, his eyes bright. "It felt great. For the first time, I had this feeling..."
He carefully weighed his words. "A feeling of being needed."
It wasn't about being valued for his talent, but simply being trusted and looked up to as a role model by a group of kids.
Sarah couldn't help laughing. "Then don't you forget that you promised to buy them match tickets. If you really make it into the first team down the road, no backing out!"
Du An smiled along with her. "I won't forget. Never."
When they returned to the shop, Jack had already ordered lunch.
The three of them had a simple meal of sandwiches and hot soup. Jack had other business in the afternoon, so he said his goodbyes and left first.
For the rest of the day, Sarah and Du An looked after the shop together.
There weren't many customers. The two occasionally exchanged a few words, but mostly kept to their own tasks.
At three o'clock, Du An packed up his things, ready to finish his shift.
Just as he pushed open the door, he saw the familiar postman pulling up beside the postbox on his bicycle, briskly slotting a stack of letters inside.
The postman looked up, saw him, and nodded in greeting. Then he opened the shop door and called inside, "Sarah, mail's in today!"
"Got it!" Sarah called back from inside the shop.
When Sarah looked up through the glass door, she happened to catch Du An turning back to look at the postbox.
A smile crossed her face.
The next day was the same routine: tending the shop, arranging merchandise, and helping customers.
Close to three in the afternoon, just as Du An was tidying the counter to wrap up his shift, Sarah called out to him.
"Du An, hold on a second." She pointed to the postbox outside the door. "Could you do me a quick favor? The postman comes by with the mail around three every day. Some are letters of condolence addressed to specific families, some are for the HJC, and some are addressed to 'All Families.'
"Of course, besides the postman, there are also letters dropped directly into the box by supporters themselves.
"Anyway,
"we need to sort them out. Some we handle as an organization, and some require written replies, but everything gets mixed together. Could you grab them all for me in a moment? The key is under the till. We'll sort through them together afterwards—it won't take up much of your time. I'm going to take inventory in the back storeroom now."
"Sure," Du An nodded.
Before long, three o'clock arrived.
The brass bell on the door chimed, and the postman pushed it open, calling out out of habit, "Sarah—"
He cut himself off halfway through. Glancing around without seeing Sarah, his gaze landed on Du An behind the counter.
He gave Du An a once-over and chuckled. "New here? I ran into you the last couple of times, but never got around to chatting."
"Yeah, just helping out on weekends," Du An replied with a nod. "I'm Du An. Sarah went to the back storeroom to check inventory."
"I'm Litt. Been delivering mail on this patch for nearly five years now, so I know this shop inside out." The postman turned toward the door as he spoke. "Can't stay to chat—still got half a street of deliveries to do, running short on time. See you around, lad."
The brass bell chimed once more, and the soft ring of the bicycle bell soon faded into the distance.
Du An picked up the postbox key, walked to the entrance, unlocked the metal postbox, and took out all the postcards and envelopes inside, carrying them back to the counter in his arms.
He casually flipped through them, and his movement suddenly froze.
He noticed several letters bearing neither sender information nor a specific recipient address, the envelopes inscribed in various handwritings—
Some read "96, Heaven"; some read "To Those Who Never Came Home"; and others merely featured a small hand-drawn Liverpool crest, alongside a line of tiny script: "You'll Never Walk Alone."
Du An could almost feel the warmth of the paper.
These letters could never reach heaven, nor did they have real recipients, yet every single one held the heaviest emotions carried in the hearts of those supporters.
Seventeen years.
Some things, and some people, were never forgotten.
Chapter 39