The next morning, Haruto was already outside the school gate before sunrise.
The worn-out playbook sat heavy in his backpack, pages bookmarked with folded corners and dried-out pencil scribbles from a time long gone. It didn't smell like hope—it smelled like chalk dust and old regret. But to him, it felt like a second chance.
Sōta arrived fifteen minutes later, yawning, a rice ball half-eaten in his hand.
"You've been reading that thing all night, haven't you?" he said, tossing Haruto a can of warm milk tea.
Haruto caught it, still staring at the field.
"It's not just drills," he murmured. "It's full of plans. Position shifts, pitch types, counters to different batting orders... whoever wrote this used it like a weapon."
"Then we should learn to use it the same way," Sōta replied simply.
Reina arrived next, hair tied messily, holding a clipboard. "I made a proper attendance list and training schedule," she said, slapping it into Haruto's hand. "If we're going to fake being a team, we may as well fake being serious."
Haruto raised an eyebrow. "We're not faking it."
She didn't reply, but she didn't deny it either.
---
By 7:00 AM, five players had gathered. Kento, Riku, Daichi, and Yuu came, yawning, tripping over their own bags, but they came. No complaints. No excuses. Just the quiet understanding that something had changed.
Coach Inoue didn't appear. But someone had cleaned the rust off the training net. The chalk lines were fresh. The grass had been cut.
No one mentioned it.
Haruto opened the playbook. First page: "Practice like you lose every time. Play like you'll never lose again."
He held it up. "We're doing this. One drill at a time."
---
That day's practice was chaos.
Yuu couldn't field a grounder without panicking. Daichi kept swinging the bat too early. Kento tripped over his own shoelace during outfield sprint drills.
But something was different.
When Haruto pitched, the ball hummed again. Not always. Not perfectly. But now and then, it danced through the air like it had its own rhythm.
Sōta began testing signals. One finger for fastball. Tap twice for low inside. Shoulder touch for curve.
They missed more than they landed. But when they landed—it clicked.
---
As the sun lowered and orange light spilled across the dirt, Reina sat scribbling notes under the dugout roof.
"You guys look like idiots," she called out, "but for some reason… it's starting to look like baseball."
Haruto grinned. "We're not aiming to be pretty."
Daichi collapsed next to her, panting. "I hit the ball twice today!"
"You also hit your own foot with the bat," she added dryly.
Still, he laughed.
---
That night, Haruto walked home alone, playbook tucked under his arm like a bible.
He passed the old vending machine near the shrine, the one where his grandfather used to wait with a towel and a scolding after every failed practice swing.
He paused. Looked up at the sky. No wind this time. No miracle pitch. Just a boy carrying dreams in bruised hands.
But somehow… he felt like the sky had started watching.
And maybe—just maybe—it would again.
---
[End of Chapter 15]