Spring quietly settled over the neighbourhood.
The cherry blossoms that had painted the streets pink only a week earlier now drifted gently through the air, carried away by the afternoon breeze.
The Fujikawa family had decided to spend the day outdoors.
Not because there was any special occasion.
Simply because Michael had managed to come home early for once.
"...It's been a while since all four of us went out together."
Reina smiled as she adjusted the brim of Mio's little sun hat.
"You've been busy lately."
Michael rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
"...Sorry."
Before anyone could say another word—
"Dad!"
A boy rushed out of the house carrying a football under one arm.
At twelve years old, Reo had grown much taller than the little brother following behind him, though his personality hadn't changed one bit.
He was still loud.
Still energetic.
Still incapable of walking whenever running was an option.
"Today's mine!"
Michael laughed.
"Oh?"
"You promised we'd race."
"And this time I'm definitely winning."
"...Didn't you say that last month?"
"That doesn't count."
"I slipped."
"You tripped over nothing."
"There was an invisible rock."
Reina couldn't hold back her laughter.
"You've been using that excuse since elementary school."
"It'll work eventually."
"It hasn't."
Michael shook his head with a helpless smile.
"I seriously wonder where he gets all that energy."
"Definitely not from me," Reina replied.
"...Then it has to be from you."
---
The riverside park was peaceful.
Children laughed beneath blooming sakura trees while elderly couples enjoyed slow walks along the riverside path.
Several families had already spread picnic blankets across the grass.
The moment they stepped inside—
"Hey!"
"Reo!"
Three boys waved enthusiastically from across the park.
"There you are!"
"Took you long enough!"
Reo's face immediately lit up.
"Ken!"
"Yuuto!"
"Haru!"
He turned towards his parents.
"Can I go?"
Michael chuckled.
"You were already halfway there before you asked."
"...True."
Reo grinned sheepishly before turning towards Mio.
"I'll be back later!"
Without waiting for an answer...
He sprinted toward his friends.
The four boys immediately began arguing over what game to play first.
Before long...
A football flew into the air.
"No hands!"
"You kicked it out!"
"You kicked it!"
"I barely touched it!"
Their laughter echoed throughout the park.
Mio quietly watched them.
...
Twelve-year-olds...
Really did have endless energy.
"They're good kids."
Reina smiled as she watched Reo with his friends.
"They've been together since kindergarten."
Michael nodded.
"I'm glad he has people he can grow up with."
Mio looked at his brother once more.
Reo wasn't just his older brother.
He had his own friends.
His own world.
Somehow...
That made the sight feel even warmer.
Without realizing it...
A small smile appeared on Mio's face.
Then—
Pop.
A sharp sound cut through the air.
His smile faded as his attention shifted elsewhere.
Another.
Pop.
Leather striking leather.
His head slowly turned.
A group of teenagers stood beneath a row of cherry blossom trees.
Some wore baseball caps.
Others had rolled up their sleeves.
No uniforms.
No coach.
Just friends enjoying a quiet afternoon together.
One throw.
One catch.
Then another.
The baseball sliced cleanly through the spring air.
Pop.
Something stirred inside him.
Not excitement.
Not curiosity.
Recognition.
His feet moved before he realised it.
One step.
Then another.
Until he found himself standing quietly at the edge of the field.
Watching.
Listening.
Michael noticed almost immediately.
"..."
He followed his son's gaze.
"...Baseball."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"So..."
"That's what caught your attention."
He didn't interrupt.
Nor did he call Mio back.
Instead...
He simply walked over and stood beside him.
The father and son watched together in comfortable silence.
One of the teenagers noticed them.
"Oh..."
"Did our ball roll over?"
Michael shook his head.
"No."
"My son was just watching."
The teenager looked toward the small silver-haired boy.
"Are you interested?"
Mio hesitated.
"..."
"I don't know."
The answer made the teenager laugh.
"Fair enough."
At that age...
How could anyone know?
A few minutes later...
An errant throw bounced across the grass.
Straight toward Mio.
The ball rolled gently until it stopped against his shoe.
"..."
He looked down.
White leather.
Bright red stitching.
Without thinking...
He bent over and picked it up.
It was...
Heavier than he expected.
Warm.
The rough leather brushed against his fingertips.
His thumb slowly traced the stitching.
Somewhere deep inside...
His heart beat just a little faster.
"..."
Why?
He couldn't answer.
"Can you throw it back?"
Mio looked up.
The teenager smiled encouragingly.
"No rush."
"Just toss it."
Mio nodded.
He gripped the baseball with both hands.
Then...
Almost instinctively...
His fingers shifted.
One settled across the seams.
Another beneath them.
"..."
Michael's eyes widened slightly.
"..."
That grip...
Nobody had shown him that.
Mio didn't notice.
He simply threw.
The ball travelled only a few metres before bouncing twice.
It wasn't a good throw.
Not even close.
Yet...
The teenager caught it with a grin.
"Nice!"
Mio blinked.
"...It wasn't."
"It got here."
"..."
"That's enough."
The game resumed.
Mio remained where he was.
Watching.
Listening.
Every throw.
Every catch.
Every laugh.
Without realising it...
He smiled.
A small one.
But real.
As they walked home later that afternoon...
Michael glanced down at his son.
"You liked it."
Mio was quiet for a while.
"..."
"I don't know."
Michael waited patiently.
Finally...
Mio spoke.
"It..."
He searched for the words.
"...felt familiar."
Michael's footsteps slowed.
Familiar.
That was exactly how he had described baseball to his own father...
More than twenty years ago.
He looked ahead.
Toward the road leading home.
A gentle smile appeared on his face.
"...I understand."
That evening...
After dinner...
Michael climbed the stairs to the attic alone.
Dust danced beneath the single lightbulb as he opened an old wooden cabinet.
Inside...
Among neatly packed boxes...
Lay a worn leather baseball glove.
He carefully picked it up.
The leather had darkened with age.
The pocket bore countless marks from years of catches.
His thumb brushed against faded initials stamped inside.
M.F.
Michael Fujikawa.
He smiled.
"...Looks like..."
"...it's finally your turn."
He gently closed the glove.
Not to give it away tomorrow.
Not next week.
There was no rush.
Children grew at their own pace.
He would wait...
Until Mio reached for baseball himself.