The story can be told in many ways, with many layers. It has its ups and downs, many elements. Think of an entire life. It starts with a reason why someone would not want to bring a child into this world. Then, at the age of fifteen, the doctors, after examining the condition, will frown and say, "This boy can’t even run, let alone play." At this stage of the story, the boy’s dreadful disease will be tachycardia. Later, it’s believed his future is dark, and due to his mischief in school, a teacher will expel him. Since he can’t fit in with the language, trainers at the Lisbon academy will say, “Teach him the language first, not football.”

The story continues this way, with the boy going to United, setting record after record. At Old Trafford, he will cause traffic jams. Then he will go to Madrid, reaching the pinnacle of his career. He’ll grow from adolescence into maturity, with the strain of muscles on his once energetic body. Old Trafford will one day transform into the Bernabéu, then to Italy’s Turin. As we read further, the reader will hear phrases like, “Not everyone can become a giant tree. Some can, some can’t. Time is the only judge.”

Those with consciousness will see the newborn’s curiosity, or the incredible will of a lion cub breaking out of its cage. That is its nature, its existence, its bloodline. Nothing stays completely still. Just like the roots of a climbing plant, some questions don’t have answers. But with time, we become companions of those questions. Some discomfort, some whispers, some language of silence—everything somehow becomes part of memory. The pages of the story will continue to unfold in this way. The flow of time and the direction of football will change, but the boy will remain eternal.

From Old Trafford to the Bernabéu, the Bernabéu to Turin, and finally Al Nassr—though his jersey may change, his legacy will remain unshaken. This story spans from adolescence to maturity, right up to the moment when the boots are hung up, and through it all, the boy remains as radiant as ever. The story never truly ends; it keeps going, its boundaries just expand. At one point, the man will defy tachycardia, setting a world record by running 33.98 kilometers in the World Cup. What was once thought of as a dark future will instead see him light up the skies with love in the 21st century, from Africa to Asia, from Washington to the Sahara.

As the story reaches its final edge, the reader will stop, lost in thought, focusing on the floating words, the frozen moments. In that gaze, the first sensation of touch will be felt, the deep silence after every victory, the clenched fist raised towards the sky, the mad desire to touch the boundaries of time. Then the curtain will fall. "So much more," that which is not visible, but must be felt deeply in the heart. A generation’s youth, the exuberance of its youth, the fragmented memories of expansive moments—the silence that falls after the final words, that still frame, that emotion. Then the applause will rise, a storm of excitement will sweep through. Everything feels familiar, well-known. But the one unknown moment remains—eternal, infinite, like a cold existence woven into the fabric of time, like dust in the air.

That one indescribable moment—those who have it feel its echo. Before the curtain falls, beyond the dark shadows of amazement, Ronaldo leaves behind a touch of a rainbow. Yet he roams from country to country, a dream merchant at heart. Each struggle of his childhood was chasing those little dreams, holding them in his chest as he ran. He dreamt. As time flows on, days pass, the body ages, but the colors of the gray canvas do not change. He remains wrapped in a golden glow. His age doesn’t increase. He is eternal, infinite, like nature itself—forever flowing, forever untarnished.

Out of the dusty record books of the world and the pages of weathered history, a Cristiano Ronaldo is born. A new chapter unfolds, where every word becomes a mark of a new history. The world changes, and football’s pace evolves. The 2000s pass, and a new era begins. Familiar faces slowly disappear into the crowd. But Cristiano? He remains the same—solitary, yet steadfast; familiar, yet unique. His story never ends, his name written in the endless stream of time. The story of Ronaldo has no conclusion.

Our El Clásico. The heat of our green pitch and the roar of the gallery. Our dreams, golden hair. Our emotional debates, which sometimes take form as silent tears. The posters hung on our walls. The late-night planning of our FIFA team. The strategies drawn in our school notebooks. Every step he takes, every goal, every success—everything merges with our dreams. He is not just a footballer; he is a feeling. His story has stretched far beyond the confines of football. He is the brightest star in our memories.