It was the summer before we started middle school, and the whole neighborhood was our pitch.

Every afternoon, at four, one of us would grab the old leather ball and knock on the gates: "Game on!" And we'd pour out of every house, in worn-out shoes and mismatched shirts, splitting into two teams in the narrow alley that led to the abandoned house. We were usually twelve players, six against six. I'm Omar, goalkeeper for the Blue team.

That day, the ball flew over the wall of the abandoned house. It was the first time such a heavy silence had fallen over us. We stopped and stared at the green, vine-covered wall.

Rami said, "Who's getting it?"

No one moved. The abandoned house had black windows and a cracked wooden door. Our mothers always warned us away from it. Zyad, the oldest among us, said, "I will."

He climbed the wall. We heard him land on the other side, then silence. A minute passed. Then two. Then his head popped up over the wall, his face pale, the ball in his hand.

He said, "Let's play somewhere else."

We didn't understand, but we played that evening in the schoolyard. No one mentioned what had happened.

The next day, I noticed the first strange thing. We counted the boys at the edge of the alley before the match began, and there were eleven of us. Rami said, "What's this? We're short one." We looked around. I couldn't think of anyone who was missing. But no one could explain why we always counted twelve. We'd say, "Six against six," and then count and get five and six.

Zyad said, "Maybe someone just didn't show up."

But I couldn't shake the feeling. As if there were an empty seat somewhere that I knew existed, without knowing whose it was.

The following week I started digging. I pulled out summer photos from my mother's drawer. In every photo we stood in a single line in front of the wall: eleven boys. But in the older photos, there was a narrow gap at the far right, just enough space for a boy's body — but empty, as if someone had been wiped out of it.

I asked my mother, "Was there another boy with us?" She looked at me, worried. "What's wrong with you? No. There's always been eleven of you."

That afternoon, when we went out to play, I noticed something new that frightened me even more. Rami called out to me: "Hey... hey..." then stopped, staring at my face in confusion. He laughed nervously and said, "Omar! Of course, Omar. What's wrong with me?" I didn't laugh. Because this wasn't ordinary forgetfulness. It was as if my name was slipping out of their memory, step by step.

I told myself: "If I don't remember Bilal soon, I might be next."

That same night I opened the Blue team's notebook. I used to write down the players' names and shirt numbers in it. On the last page I found handwriting that wasn't mine: the number twelve, and beside it an empty box. No name written at all.

I tried to remember. I closed my eyes, and a quick image flashed through my mind: a thin boy with curly black hair, always laughing, running fast, scoring goals with his left foot, wearing a faded yellow shirt with "12" written on it in thick marker. And when he scored, he'd jump and shout, "Goal! Goal! Goal!" louder than anyone else.

I opened my eyes with a start, my heart pounding. Who was he? Why couldn't I remember his name?

In the morning I went to the alley alone. I stood in front of the abandoned house's wall, staring at the cracked door. And suddenly I remembered what Zyad had seen that day: in the yard sat a boy among the weeds, crying silently, playing with a stone. Zyad had asked him, "Who are you?" He hadn't answered. He'd just looked up with wide eyes and said quietly, "No one remembers me."

I climbed the wall. I didn't think — I just jumped to the other side. The yard was full of tall weeds, and in the middle stood an old fig tree. On its trunk was an old carving made with a nail: 12, and beneath it, half-worn letters.

I ran my fingers over the letters. B... I... L... A... L.

The trees around me seemed to stir slowly, and I felt as if eyes were watching me from every corner. But I wasn't afraid anymore. What I felt was closer to pity.

I said, my voice trembling, "Bilal."

The air stopped. There was no more wind. No more sounds from the street. The leaves above my head went still.

I said it again, louder: "Bilal! You were with us. You played with us every afternoon. You were our fastest, you scored with your left foot, and you wore the yellow shirt. We forgot you... but I remember you now."

I heard a rustle behind me. I turned.

A boy stood at the wooden door, thin, with curly black hair, wearing a faded yellow shirt. He was smiling, his eyes shining as if he were looking at something he'd waited a long time for.

He said, "I thought you'd never remember."

I said, "Why did we forget you?"

He shrugged. "Because I moved away from the neighborhood suddenly. No one said goodbye to me. Then no one remembered me anymore. And when no one remembers you... you stay here."

I held out my hand. He took it. It was cold, and real.

He asked, "Is there still room on the team?"

I said, smiling with difficulty, "You're the twelfth player. Your place has been yours from the start."

We walked back to the alley together. The boys were waiting, confusion on their faces. When they saw Bilal walking beside me, a short silence fell. Then Rami suddenly shouted, "Bilal! Where have you been, man?!" and ran to him, the rest following. Zyad laughed and said, "How did we forget you? You're the one who used to beat us every single day!"

We played the most beautiful match of my life that afternoon: six against six, exactly as it should be. And when Bilal scored the final goal with his left foot, he jumped and shouted in his loudest voice: "Goal! Goal! Goal!"

And to this day, when I open the team notebook, I find his name written in my own handwriting, in blue ink, beside the number twelve. And I never let anyone erase it.