The guilt was a dull, unfamiliar ache in Wakashi's chest, far more insidious than the throbbing in his nose. It had crept up on him, subtle at first, as he walked away, then sharpening into an undeniable pang. It wasn't about the scolding, or even the brief burst of uncontrolled rage. It was the image of that small, defiant girl, her initial indignation melting into pure, desolate sadness as she looked at the ruined football. He hadn't meant to break her toy, not really. He'd just wanted to lash out, to make something else feel the chaotic mess inside him. And he had, by destroying something innocent.
He spent the rest of the evening restless, the salty air of Sakuragi Village suddenly feeling heavy with his unspoken regret. The monotonous crash of the waves, usually a backdrop to his apathy, now seemed to mock him, a constant reminder of the outburst.
The next morning, driven by an unfamiliar compulsion, he found himself walking the coastal path again, but this time with a different purpose. He retraced his steps, his gaze sweeping the sand and the scattered rocks near where the incident had occurred. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, maybe a lingering sign, a discarded piece of the torn ball, anything that might offer a chance to somehow undo his destructive act.
But the spot was empty. The tide had come in and gone out, washing away any evidence of the previous day's confrontation. There was no orange and white debris. No small, deflated orb. And no sign of the girl, Hana, or her friends. The beach was as pristine and indifferent as if nothing had ever happened. He walked further, scanning the entire stretch, then headed towards the worn field behind the middle school. He saw the usual handful of boys, kicking a worn ball around, but none of them were the small, elementary-school-looking girls. Hana was nowhere to be found.
A strange frustration tightened his throat. The guilt was still there, but now it mingled with an odd sense of incompleteness. He hadn't known what he would say, or do, if he found her. Buy her a new ball? Offer a mumbled, awkward apology? But the opportunity, if it had ever existed, was gone. The sea had claimed the evidence, and the girls had seemingly vanished into the quiet rhythms of the village.
Wakashi let out a slow, heavy breath, the first truly conscious breath he felt he'd taken in days. He turned away from the empty space where the ball had been, from the distant, unremarkable school field. He didn't know it, but his impulsive act of returning, this small, unseen act of regret, was itself a shift. He was no longer just drifting. The world had pushed back, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something beyond just anger or apathy. He felt a desire to fix something, even if he didn't know how.
As he walked away, a figure emerged from behind the gnarled pine trees further down the path, a man in a faded tracksuit, holding a tattered notebook. He had been there, observing. His gaze, keen and calculating, followed Wakashi's retreating form, taking in the unusual height, the powerful but clumsy stride, the coiled energy that had just manifested in a destructive fit. A flicker of something – recognition, or perhaps, opportunity – crossed the man's face. He knew the girls. He knew the ball. And he had just seen something in the tall, troubled boy that no one else in Sakuragi Village had noticed.
The guilt gnawed at Wakashi. It clung to him like the damp salt air, heavier than any regret he'd felt since his father's passing. He'd walked the coastal path again the previous day, scouring the sand for any sign of the ruined ball, for any trace of the small girl named Hana. The empty beach, however, offered no chance for atonement, just a stark reminder of his destructive outburst.
The next morning, at Sakuragi Middle School, the familiar monotony of the hallway was broken by a sudden, sharp intake of breath. There she was. Hana. She was in a lower grade, a first-year, but her slight stature made her seem even younger, almost elementary school-aged. She stood by the shoe lockers, her head bowed as she carefully changed into her indoor slippers.
Wakashi hesitated, his tall frame suddenly feeling awkward and conspicuous. He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet corridor. "Hey," he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Hana's head snapped up. Her eyes, large and dark, met his. The flash of surprise was quickly replaced by an icy indifference that stung him more than any shout. She didn't flinch, didn't cower. She simply turned her back to him, presenting him with a rigid, unyielding shoulder.
He tried again, desperation creeping into his voice. "Look, about yesterday... I'm... I'm sorry."
No response. She finished changing her shoes, straightened up, and walked past him without a glance, her small figure disappearing down the hallway. Her silence, her cold shoulder, was a direct hit. It amplified the guilt, twisting it into a knot of shame. He'd hurt someone, and she wouldn't even let him apologize.
The rest of the school day was a blur of self-recrimination. He couldn't focus on the lessons, the image of Hana's rigid back burned into his mind. He needed to make it right. But how? He had no money. His mother was already struggling, cutting every possible corner just to put food on their sparse table. Asking her for money for a football, after what he'd done, felt impossible.
After school, instead of heading for the coast, Wakashi found himself walking aimlessly down one of the village's narrow, winding roads. He was searching, though for what, he wasn't sure. A discarded bottle he could turn in for a few yen? A lost coin glinting in a gutter? His eyes scoured the ground, desperate for a way to buy a new ball, a gesture of apology that might, just might, thaw Hana's cold reception.
He rounded a bend, the road suddenly widening into a dusty, unkempt patch of ground that served as a makeshift gathering spot. A heated argument was in full swing. Six older guys, probably in their late teens or early twenties, were gesturing wildly, their voices loud and agitated. A worn, faded football lay forgotten near their feet.
"Damn it, Kenji, we're one man short!"
"Just play sixes!"
"No way, they play dirty! We need a full seven to stand a chance!"
"Who else is even around?"
One of the men, a lean guy with a perpetually bored expression, caught sight of Wakashi. His eyes, surprisingly sharp, quickly assessed Wakashi's height, noting his lanky frame and the raw, restless energy that still seemed to crackle around him, despite his subdued demeanor. A half-grin stretched across his face.
"Hey, beanpole!" the man called out, pushing away from the arguing group and approaching Wakashi. "You play?"
Wakashi flinched at the nickname, but the mention of a game, of a football, snagged his attention. He shook his head, his face still grim. "No."
"Doesn't matter!" the man dismissed, waving a hand. "We're short a man for a quick match. Seven-a-side. Just run around. We need someone for numbers." He paused, then his eyes narrowed slightly. "We're playing for some cash. Twenty thousand yen to the winner. Need a cut, kid?"
Wakashi's eyes widened, a flicker of something new, something almost like hope, igniting within him. Twenty thousand yen. That was more than enough for a new, good-quality football. He could buy her the best one in the village, maybe even order one from a sports shop online.
He looked at the man, then back at the arguing group, then down at the worn ball near their feet. The anger and shame were still there, but now, a new possibility, however faint, had entered his desolate world. "If I get money," Wakashi stated, his voice flat, but with an underlying current of fierce determination, "can I join?"
What do you think of this development? The introduction of the "older guys" and the bet provides a concrete, urgent reason for Wakashi to engage with football, even if he has no idea what he's doing. It also directly ties into his guilt and desire to apologize to Hana.