The sun beat down on the empty field. Dust clung to sweat-soaked uniforms.
No coaches. No fans. No scoreboard. Just seven kids chasing a stubborn dream.
Haruto tightened his grip on the ball. His shirt clung to his back, and his chest rose and fell with every slow breath.
"Alright," he muttered. "One more pitch."
Across from him, Sōta crouched behind a milk crate they used as a makeshift catcher's box. No gear, just padded gloves and stubborn loyalty.
"Let's go already," Sōta called. "Your dramatic pauses are getting longer than your curveball."
Haruto grinned. "This one's different."
He took his stance, drew his arm back—and then—
Whip. Snap.
The ball curved in midair. It danced—not dropped like usual—but curved.
It landed with a pop in Sōta's glove, though his hand wobbled from the force.
Silence. The other teammates, scattered across the overgrown field, slowly turned.
"What the hell was that?" Sōta blinked.
Haruto's fingers tingled. "I... don't know. I just gripped it differently."
"I didn't even call for a curve," Sōta added.
From behind them, Daichi, the tall outfielder with glasses fogged from sweat, jogged over.
"You threw that on instinct?"
Haruto nodded slowly.
"That's not normal," Reina said from the sidelines, scribbling notes in her worn notebook. "I've been watching you all year. You never pitched like that."
The air was quiet for a moment. Then Daichi chuckled.
"So... should we call it the Miracle Curve?"
Haruto laughed. "Miracle's too much. Let's just see if I can throw it again."
---
Later that afternoon…
They lined up at the edge of the field, surrounded by rusted benches and abandoned water fountains. Their school still didn't recognize their club officially, so they trained wherever they could.
Math teacher Mr. Inoue stood quietly behind a nearby window, arms crossed. He always pretended not to watch, but he never left before they did.
Haruto turned to the team.
"Let's try organizing positions. Daichi, centerfield. Renji, first base. Reina, you're... uh—"
"Bench strategist," she said with a wink. "Someone has to track our disasters."
They all laughed.
Sōta smirked. "We're still bad, but... we're better than last month."
Haruto looked at the dirty baseball in his hand. The seams were worn, but his grip felt certain.
"I'm gonna master that pitch," he said.
Sōta nodded. "And I'll make sure no one ever drops it."
From behind the window, Mr. Inoue cracked the faintest smile.
---
Chapter End Quote:
"Sometimes, miracles aren't born from magic… but from repetition no one else saw."