The season that followed was a roller coaster of emotions. Vinicius lit up the UEFA Champions League in bursts of moments — goals, assists, a raw passion that reminded him of his old self. But in the crucial moments, against Atletico and Arsenal, his brilliance faded, like a flame that finds no oxygen. He was left with only one trophy, the European Super Cup, and with the shadow of defeat by Barcelona hanging over his year.

The arrival of Xabi Alonso promised a rebirth. A new idea, a new breath, a new hierarchy. But the presence of Kylian Mbappe changed the geography of influence. The Frenchman became the epicenter; Vinicius, a satellite around a new sun. He did not react. He accepted his role, but another self began to take shape inside him: more mature, more patient, perhaps even more alone.

The numbers don't lie, but they don't tell the whole truth either. Five goals in ten games, his best start in years — and yet, three consecutive appearances on the bench, three substitutions that hurt his pride. The Ballon d'Or forgot him, but he didn't forget who he is.

His substitution in the recent Clásico, with expressions that betrayed anger and frustration, reminded us that beneath the discipline there is always a child who plays for a living. Vinicius has nothing to gain back; he just has to find himself again.

Because glory, when tasted too early, leaves behind a kind of silence that only true artists can turn back into music. And Vinicius, despite everything, remains one of them.