The final whistle had blown, and Nehimon Seimei had emerged victorious in their match against Minatogawa High. The players, both drained and exhilarated, gathered at the center of the field to shake hands. Coach Saito, still wearing a determined expression, approached Coach Nakamura, who stood calm and composed, his arms folded.
"You've got a strong team this year too, Nakamura," Saito said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. He extended his hand, his gaze unwavering.
Nakamura grasped it firmly and nodded. "Thank you, But your team gave us a hell of a fight. You'll come back stronger."
Saito smiled faintly, though there was a hint of frustration in his eyes. "Next year, we'll be the ones on top."
The two coaches shared a brief, silent understanding before parting ways. As the players moved toward the locker rooms, their conversations were a mix of laughter, fatigue, and excitement. Shinjiro Takumi, still high from the intensity of the game, had felt a sense of accomplishment. The team had fought hard, and they had earned their victory.
But as he headed home that evening, the atmosphere shifted. The bright, competitive edge from the match began to fade, replaced by a growing tension that Shinjiro couldn't quite place.
---
When Shinjiro opened the front door to his house, the familiar warmth of home greeted him. But something was off. His parents, Hiroshi and Yumi, were seated at the dining table, their faces unusually serious. Yumi's hands were clasped tightly, and Hiroshi's jaw was clenched as though he were preparing himself for something.
"Mom, Dad?" Shinjiro said, slipping off his shoes at the entrance. "What's going on?"
Hiroshi glanced at Yumi before speaking. "Shinjiro, come sit down."
Confused and now slightly alarmed, Shinjiro took a seat across from them. His mother's eyes were brimming with unshed tears, and that's when the cold sense of dread began to pool in Shinjiro's stomach.
"We... we've got some news, Shinjiro," Yumi began, her voice trembling. "It's about your grandmother."
Shinjiro's breath caught in his throat. "What about her??" he asked, his heart beating faster.
Yumi swallowed hard and reached for her son's hand. "She collapsed earlier today. The hospital... they said she was late. They couldn't save her."
For a moment, Shinjiro's mind went blank, as if everything around him had been swallowed by silence. He stared at his parents, his brain refusing to process the words that had just been spoken. His grandmother—his vibrant, energetic grandmother—was gone? It couldn't be true.
"The last time I saw her..." Shinjiro whispered, his voice breaking. "She was fine. She was really energetic... ."
Tears welled in his eyes as a flood of memories surged to the surface—memories of his grandmother, who had always been there for him. She made him laugh with her stories of his father's childhood mischief, and who cooked him his favorite meals whenever he visited.
"No..." he choked, shaking his head as the tears spilled over. "No, it can't be. It can't be."
Yumi stood up and wrapped her arms around her son, pulling him close as his sobs wracked his body. "I'm so sorry, Shinjiro," she whispered, her own tears falling freely. "I'm so sorry."
Hiroshi stood by, his face solemn, his hands clenched into fists as he tried to hold back his own grief. The family sat together in silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of loss hanging over them like a suffocating cloud.
---
That night, Shinjiro lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind restless and full of memories. He couldn't stop thinking about her—her smile, her laughter, the way she used to play catch with him in the backyard when he was younger. The image of her fragile hands handing him his first baseball glove stuck in his mind, and the thought of never seeing her again was unbearable.
His eyes burned with exhaustion, but sleep refused to come. His chest felt tight, as though the grief was pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. He didn't cry anymore—he didn't have the energy for it—but the sadness gnawed at him, keeping him awake. The sounds of the night—the ticking of the clock, the wind outside, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen—seemed louder than usual, oppressive even.
"She was fine. He kept thinking. How could everything change so quickly? How could she just be gone?"
He felt small, like the world had become too big and uncontrollable. And no matter how many times he replayed the memories of her, they couldn't bring her back.
---
The next day at school, Shinjiro's grief was still raw, and it showed. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep. He sat at his desk, his head resting on his folded arms, trying to block out the world around him. Normally, he'd be chatting with his friends before class, cracking jokes, and discussing the latest baseball stats. But today, he didn't have the energy to engage. He didn't even have the energy to speak.
Denji, noticed immediately that something was off. At first, he thought Shinjiro was just tired from the game, but when he overheard a few classmates whispering about Shinjiro's grandmother passing away, his heart sank.
After class, Denji approached Emiko. She was standing by her locker, arranging her books.
"Hey," Denji said, his voice low. "Did you hear about Shinjiro?"
Emiko frowned, glancing over her shoulder at where Shinjiro sat, slumped at his desk. "No. What happened?"
"His grandmother... she passed away," Denji said softly. "He's not doing well."
Emiko's eyes widened in shock. "Oh no... that's terrible." Her gaze drifted back to Shinjiro, and her heart ached for him. She had always admired how close Shinjiro was with his grandmother, how often he talked about her with a smile on his face.
Without another word, Emiko closed her locker and walked over to Shinjiro's desk, her steps hesitant but determined. She crouched down next to him, her expression soft and full of concern.
"Shinjiro..." she began gently. "Are you okay?"
He lifted his head slightly, his eyes red from the tears he had tried to hold back. "I'm... fine," he muttered, though it was clear he wasn't.
Emiko's heart broke at the sight of him. "You don't have to pretend to be fine," she said quietly. "You've been through a lot. If you need to take time off from practice..."
Shinjiro shook his head, sitting up straighter. "No, I need to go. I can't sit around doing nothing. I'll get through this."
Emiko's brow furrowed in worry. She knew how much baseball meant to Shinjiro, but she also knew that grief had a way of catching up with you when you least expected it. "Are you sure? Coach Nakamura would understand if you skipped today."
"I'll be fine," he insisted, though his voice wavered. "I just... I just need to stay busy."
Emiko sighed, not wanting to push him further. "Okay," she said softly. "But if you need anything, I'm here for you."
Shinjiro nodded, though his gaze was distant. "Thanks."
---
That afternoon, Shinjiro attended practice, but it was clear to everyone that he wasn't himself. He moved sluggishly across the field, his usual sharp reflexes dulled by exhaustion and sorrow. His throws were off-target, his swings lacked power, and his concentration was nonexistent.
Yamato, watched from the sidelines, frowning. It wasn't like Shinjiro to be so out of it. He had heard whispers about Shinjiro's grandmother passing away, but seeing him like this—so broken and defeated—was a different story.
Yamato walked over to Emiko, who was standing near the dugout. "What's up with Shinjiro?" he asked, his tone concerned. "He's off today."
Emiko sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "His grandmother passed away yesterday. He's taking it really hard."
Yamato's expression softened. "That explains it. Shouldn't he be resting?"
"I tried to tell him," Emiko said, glancing over at Shinjiro, who was standing in the outfield, staring blankly at the ground. "But he insisted on coming to practice. I don't think he knows how to deal with it."
Just then, Coach Nakamura called for a break and approached Shinjiro, his usual stern expression tempered with understanding.