The alarm had rung three times.Hashina slowly opened his eyes. A thin line of sunlight slipped through the small window, splitting the room into two halves—light and shadow.
He lay there for a long while, his body heavy, as if an invisible bar pressed him down, separating him from the world outside.
On the wooden shelf hung an old pair of boxing gloves. The leather had cracked and faded, one of the laces snapped—leaving the glove drooping to the side, like a fallen fighter after the final blow. He stared at it for a while—then looked away.
From the kitchen came the faint sizzle of breakfast being cooked. A faint aroma of food crept into the room, but Hashina felt no hunger.He turned on the TV. The screen flickered with static before replaying an old match. On it was himself—young, determined, his eyes burning with the hunger to win—as the crowd roared his name.
Inside the cramped room, the cheers echoed once more, but not from the film—they came from his memory. The sound stretched, then faded, until there was nothing left but silence.
He dragged his tired body out of the room, every movement heavy, even the thought of washing up felt too far beyond reach.In the living room, his wife and child were already seated at the table.
"Come eat, honey," she said softly."I'm not hungry yet. You two go ahead," he replied.
She said nothing, only nodded. It wasn't the first time she had heard that.
His dull eyes passed over the table, over the faces of his family, and turned away again—unmoved. His mind was still trapped in the ring, among the roar of the crowd, and the younger version of himself who once stood there.
He sat by the window, staring out at the hot, breathless summer morning. After a while, he lit a cigarette. The smoke rose slowly, curling, then disappeared. He sat there, listening to his own breathing—soft, distant—as if it belonged to someone else.
It wasn't until the cigarette burned down to his fingers that he flinched.
When he looked around again, his wife and child were gone. The room was silent now, except for the fan turning lazily, slicing the air in a futile attempt to stir something that no longer moved.
The clock showed it was nearly noon.
Light trembled against his face, illuminating one side while the other sank into shadow. Inside him, those two halves wrestled endlessly—one that still wished to live, and one that had long been dead.
His eyes drifted toward the wooden shelf. Dust had gathered thick over the trophies and medals, their metal long since dulled—as though time itself had quietly buried the glory he once held.
He sat there, unmoving, letting the stillness wash over him—like a river that once raged but now lay calm, eerily calm.Outside, life went on, people moving forward, chasing something, anything.Only he remained still—adrift in the fragments of a youth long gone.
Tomorrow would be no different from today — just another echo of the same silence.