It was a quiet morning, just days after their first win in the middle school league. The field was soaked from last night's rain, and clouds still lingered low like they hadn't yet decided if they were finished. The team had been given a rare rest day, but Haruto was already there, tossing balls into a worn-down net with one hand and massaging his shoulder with the other.
He wasn't alone.
Sōta stood near the dugout, watching silently, arms crossed. He wasn't dressed in practice gear—just an old sweatshirt and jeans, hood pulled over his head. The same blank stare on his face, the same unreadable eyes. To the rest of the team, Sōta was the quiet utility man. He played wherever he was needed, spoke only when spoken to, and rarely smiled.
But to Haruto, Sōta was something more. Something unsaid.
"You're early," Haruto said without turning, sweat dripping from his brow.
"Didn't feel like staying home," Sōta replied.
The silence between them settled in again—comfortable, but heavy, like the calm before a storm neither of them wanted to admit was coming.
"You ever actually like baseball?" Haruto asked, tossing another pitch into the net. It hit the mesh with a flat thud.
Sōta didn't answer.
---
Later that day, when the rest of the team gathered for a team meeting inside their school's old gymnasium, Coach Inoue handed out scouting notes and practice assignments. Everyone buzzed with energy, laughing and joking about their win. Everyone except Sōta.
He sat in the back, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
"Hey," Reina said, handing him a wrapped rice ball. "You did great in the last game. That slide into third? Textbook."
Sōta took the food, nodded, but didn't smile. Reina frowned slightly but didn't press him.
When Haruto stood up to talk about team strategy, Sōta's eyes remained fixed on the scuffed wooden floor. Not once did he raise his hand or offer a suggestion.
---
That night, the sky cracked open with another storm. Rain lashed against the tin roof of the storage shed where Haruto and Sōta had taken shelter after trying to cover the field tarp.
"You're always playing like you're angry," Haruto said suddenly, breaking the roar of rain. "You don't enjoy the game, do you?"
Sōta looked away. "I don't play for the game."
"Then why?"
The answer didn't come easily. Sōta stared at the wall for a long time before he finally spoke.
"When I was a kid, my older brother played baseball. He was a natural. Everyone loved him. Every weekend, the whole town showed up to watch him pitch. He had offers from every high school, even college scouts."
Haruto didn't interrupt.
"I was the kid holding the towel on the bench, clapping when he struck someone out. I didn't mind... until the day he tore his rotator cuff." Sōta's voice lowered, quieter than the rain. "He kept playing. He lied about the pain. Everyone praised him for being tough. But one day, it just gave out. No surgery, no recovery. It ended before it began."
Haruto felt the weight of that silence.
"He never recovered. Works at a fish market now. Doesn't touch a baseball. Won't even watch a game."
"And that's why you hate it?" Haruto asked.
"I hate what it did to him," Sōta said. "And I hate that I still stepped into the game he lost."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Haruto said, "But you still play."
"I play for you, Haruto."
The words hit heavier than anything Haruto had expected.
"You're the only one who still plays like it means something." Sōta's voice cracked just slightly. "You throw like you're chasing something impossible, and for some reason... that makes me want to catch it with you."
Haruto didn't reply, but something in his chest twisted.
They were both chasing ghosts.
---
The next game came fast—too fast.
Their opponent was bigger, more experienced, more structured. But Haruto was focused. Sōta, though, played differently. There was a fire in his steps. No longer mechanical, no longer shadowed by anger.
During the fifth inning, with the score 3–2 in the other team's favor, a sharp grounder rocketed toward second base. It should've been a clean hit.
But Sōta dove—body stretched flat across the dirt—snatching the ball just inches from the baseline. He twisted and flung it mid-air toward first.
"OUT!" the umpire shouted.
The crowd, though small, erupted in shock. Even Reina clapped her hands over her mouth.
"That's our utility boy!" Takeshi laughed. "The Silent Wall!"
Haruto grinned from the mound. That was no accident. That was Sōta finally playing—not from anger, but from something else.
From belief.
---
After the game, as the team walked home under the pale glow of the streetlights, Haruto nudged Sōta with his elbow.
"You still hate baseball?"
Sōta shoved his hands in his pockets. "Maybe a little less."
"Good," Haruto smiled. "Because I think you just made your brother proud."
Sōta didn't answer.
But he smiled—just a little.
And that was enough.
---
End of Chapter 34