The box under the bed is full of photos. Dilnoza takes one and looks at it for a long time. Nine boys in white shirts stand on dry grass.
"Who were these boys?" she asks.
Her grandfather takes the photo in both hands. "That was our team," he says. "The year was 1961. I was fourteen."
"Were you the goalkeeper?"
"No, I wasn't. My brother was the goalkeeper. He was tall, and he wasn't afraid of the ball."
"Where was the field?"
"There was a field behind the old mosque. There were no lines on the grass, and the goals were two sticks. The ball was heavy. In the rain it was a stone."
"And these two boys were your friends?"
"They were. Anvar was a good runner. Timur was our captain. They weren't rich boys — nobody in that street was rich."
Dilnoza looks at the photo again: nine boys, one ball, and not one pair of football boots.
"This morning it was only a photo," she says. "Now it is a story."