It rained the whole next day.
Not the gentle countryside drizzle Haruto had grown up with, but something colder. A soaking, relentless downpour that made the roads slick and the baseball diamond into a muddy wasteland.
Practice was canceled. Not that anyone showed up anyway.
Haruto didn't go to school.
He sat at the edge of the old storehouse behind his grandfather's farmhouse, arms resting on his knees, forehead pressed against the cold wood of the wall. His jersey, soaked from yesterday's game, still hung on the bamboo line, untouched. The Aoyama match replayed in loops behind his eyes — Senda's clean triple in the sixth, their catcher fumbling a pop-up, the silence from the crowd.
Worse than the loss… was how they all looked at him afterward.
No one blamed him. But no one said anything either.
That silence hurt more than blame ever could.
His hand moved on its own, curling into a fist.
I'm not strong enough.
He didn't notice the footsteps until they stopped right beside him. A deep voice, steady and quiet, followed.
> "You pitch like your father."
Haruto glanced up.
His grandfather, Shinjiro Hayakawa, stood with two steaming cups of barley tea. Wrinkles lined his face like dry riverbeds, and yet there was a warmth behind his eyes that hadn't faded with time.
He sat beside Haruto without waiting for permission, set down the cups, and didn't say anything for a long time. They just sat — listening to the rain crackle on the tin roof.
> "That was a fine pitch you threw to Senda," he said eventually.
Haruto shook his head, voice barely a whisper.
> "It didn't matter. We still lost."
His grandfather took a sip of tea, then set it down with a soft clink.
> "Do you know," he began, "that I once threw a perfect game?"
Haruto blinked. "…What?"
> "Middle school final. Against Shiroi Academy. Not a single hit. Nine innings. I pitched alone."
Haruto turned toward him, disbelief written on his face.
> "Then why… why have you never told me that?"
> "Because I lost."
Shinjiro chuckled. A bitter, nostalgic sound.
> "They scored in the seventh. A fielding error on a ground ball. That was enough."
> "But… you were perfect."
His grandfather nodded. "Yes. But baseball isn't about being perfect. It's about being together."
Silence again. The rain slowed just slightly.
> "You think what you're feeling is failure," Shinjiro said, looking out toward the field, "but it's only the absence of understanding. You saw a mountain, climbed halfway, and thought that was the summit."
Haruto closed his eyes.
> "What if I never get there?"
> "Then you'll climb again. And again. Because the game doesn't care about your fear, Haruto. It only asks you to show up. To stand there. One pitch at a time."
---
That evening, Haruto returned to the school.
The locker room was dim. The others had cleared out already, but one pair of shoes still rested by the bench.
Sōta.
He sat cross-legged, staring at the inside of his mitt like it held secrets.
> "You ran away," Sōta said, not looking up.
> "I know."
> "You can't do that again."
Haruto sat beside him.
> "It wasn't just the loss," he confessed. "I felt… exposed."
Sōta finally looked up.
> "Haruto, we're all exposed. None of us are ready. That's why we need you to stand there anyway."
The words weren't poetic, or wise. But they reached him.
Haruto nodded.
> "I'll be at practice tomorrow."
> "Good," Sōta replied, standing up and offering a hand. "Because the league starts next week. And I'm not catching for anyone else."
---
Meanwhile, Reina sat alone in the school infirmary, arranging a few leftover bandages in her kit.
She had seen Haruto's pitch. And she had seen the man watching — the one in the coat with a notebook.
> "That pitch wasn't ordinary…" she whispered to herself. "And neither is what's coming."
She looked out the window. Rain still whispered across the concrete.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 30]