The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
The breath going out of a crowd does not dissipate. It settles. It finds the lowest point in the room and it waits there, patient as sediment, for the next person to walk through the door.
That is what is waiting for whoever comes next.
Not the grief — there is no grief here, not exactly. Not the gratitude either, though that is genuinely present, warm and correctly sized. What is waiting is the exhale itself: the sound of a generation of supporters finally releasing something they had been holding since before this man arrived. He did not cause that tension. He inherited it. And then, slowly, across years that asked more of belief than belief usually survives, he converted it into something that could actually be breathed out.
That conversion is the legacy. It is also the problem.
Because what supporters exhale becomes the floor the next appointment stands on. The room has already been told that qualification is not the achievement anymore. It is the beginning. The incoming manager will feel that the moment they enter — not as pressure applied from outside, but as atmosphere. As the particular temperature of a room where something has already been proven and everyone knows it.
They will inherit an exhale that was never theirs to earn.
And they will be asked, immediately, to deserve it.