The jersey was too big for Meher. It hung past her shorts, the number on the back faded to a pale ghost of blue.

It had been her father’s. Number 9. Local league, years ago, before Meher was born.

“You don’t have to wear that today,” her mother said softly, folding laundry nearby.

“I want to,” Meher said. “Underneath. Just for me.”

Her mother smiled and helped her tuck it in properly. “He’d have liked that,” she said. “He always said left wing belonged to the brave ones.”

Meher played left wing that day, same as her father once had. She remembered him saying, “The space is always there, beta. People just don’t look.”

In the second half, she found that space near the touchline. She crossed the ball without thinking, and Riya headed it in.

While her team celebrated, Meher stood still for one second, hand pressed against her chest, against the old number 9 hidden beneath her own jersey.

Her mother, watching from the sideline, pressed her own hand to her chest at the exact same moment, like an answer.

Meher saw it, and smiled properly for the first time that day.

Walking home afterwards, her mother put an arm around her shoulder. “He would have been so loud right now. Embarrassingly loud.”

Meher laughed. “Shouting my name wrong, probably.”

“Every single time,” her mother agreed.

That evening, Meher washed the old jersey together with her own kit, letting the colours mix in the same water.

Some things, she decided, were allowed to blend. It didn’t mean you forgot which one came first.