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𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈́𝐍, 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐀.
𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋, luna cortés had signed the contract.
she stared at her screen, the confirmation pdf stamped and saved neatly in her downloads folder. her fingers hovered above the trackpad before finally clicking to open the email from jürgen klopp that had come through only moments after she'd sent her signature.
dear luna,
i'm thrilled to officially welcome you to liverpool football club as our new seasonal photographer. your portfolio speaks for itself — your work captures not only the moment, but the heart behind it. i have no doubt you'll bring that same magic here.
please find attached: – housing details near the club grounds (your flat will be ready for you and your daughter upon arrival) – travel itinerary and covered expenses – tuition confirmation for martina's enrollment in a highly rated school just a few minutes from the training facilities – staff credentials and photo pass pre-approval
we'll touch base in person when you arrive, but feel free to reach out with any questions in the meantime.
welcome to liverpool.
warm regards, jürgen klopp
luna blinked a few times, overwhelmed.
she sat back against the kitchen chair, still in her oversized shirt and cotton shorts from the night before, mug of tea lukewarm in her hand. "díos mío," she whispered under her breath.
there was something surreal about seeing it in writing. about the weight of someone like jürgen klopp reaching out to her, not just as a professional, but as a person. he didn't need to make it so personal. didn't need to cover schooling. housing. everything. and yet, he had.
she was grateful. beyond words. but a nervous flutter remained in her stomach, fluttering like a moth trapped in a jar. not because of the job, she could handle the job. she'd done stadium shoots before, sports portraits, celebration reels, even football campaigns with the local league in medellín. but this wasn't about the job.
this was about returning. about walking old streets and maybe catching glimpses of familiar faces. about memories she'd kept at the very bottom of her chest of drawers.
"tía, look," luna called, voice quiet but hopeful.
alma popped her head into the kitchen, eyes still drowsy from her late crossword binge. "qué pasó, mija?"
"he sent the final email," luna turned the laptop so alma could read it. "it's done. we're going."
"ay, dios," alma exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest. "mira esto, tuition? travel? housing? no joda, esto es serio."
