It's Momo who calls you. You're sitting in a hotel room, the day before a match. You don't cry, can't. You have a match tomorrow, you have to be in your best shape. You can't spend the night crying your eyes out over an old mentor who you haven't talked to in years. You can't.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You receive six more calls and throw the useless phone across the room when you realize, in horror, that there won't be a seventh. You'll never hear that deep, timber voice again. Not in rebuke, not in fun, not ever again.