The next few days passed in a haze. The cabin was quieter than usual, the world outside seemingly unchanged by the extraordinary events that had unfolded. Gran kept busy with her chores, but there was an air of quiet tension around her, as if she, too, was waiting for something. Daniel could feel it—like an invisible thread stretching through the air, pulling at him and the stranger lying in their midst.
James Larkin was still recovering. His memory, fragmented at best, began to piece itself together in disjointed flashes. At first, he couldn't remember much—his life before the crash, how he had ended up in the mountains, or even how long it had been since he'd last played baseball. But in the quiet of Gran's cabin, surrounded by the solitude of the mountains, he slowly began to open up.
Daniel found himself spending more time with James. They'd sit by the fire, or walk along the creek, and as the days passed, James began to share stories of his past—stories that sounded like legends, like tales from another lifetime. Stories of playing in stadiums full of roaring fans, of the dizzying highs of victory, and the crushing lows that followed.
Daniel had listened with a mix of awe and skepticism. The stories seemed too grand, too far-fetched. How could a small-town kid like him possibly relate to the life James had led? And yet, the more he listened, the more he began to see something in the former pitcher's eyes—something raw, something that spoke of a world far removed from the quiet mountain life Daniel had always known.
It was the morning of the third day since the crash when James finally spoke with clarity. They were sitting outside, the air cool and crisp, the first hints of autumn creeping into the trees. Daniel had been tossing stones across the creek, trying to perfect the arc he had learned as a boy, while James sat with his back against the cabin, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains.
"You know," James said, his voice sounding stronger than it had in days, "I never thought I'd end up here. Not like this."
Daniel paused, the stone in his hand forgotten. He turned to face James, who seemed to be looking at the mountains with a faraway expression.
"What do you mean?" Daniel asked cautiously.
James glanced at him, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I spent my whole career on the mound. On the field. All I ever knew was throwing a ball, controlling the game with my arm. It's funny, you know? You spend your whole life chasing something, and then... one day, it's just gone. Like the game's over and you don't even realize it until it's too late."
Daniel didn't say anything. He simply sat beside James, waiting for him to continue.
James exhaled slowly, as if releasing a long-held breath. "When I crashed here, when I woke up and saw you, I didn't know where I was. I didn't know who I was. For the first time in years, I felt lost. But now, I'm starting to see something." He turned his gaze toward Daniel, his eyes sharp with a new intensity. "You've got something, kid. Something I can't quite explain. It's not just throwing rocks. You've got a gift."
Daniel's chest tightened at the words. He had heard people call him talented before, even gifted, but never like this. Never with such certainty.
"I'm not a baseball player," Daniel said, his voice hesitant. "I've never played a day in my life. I just throw rocks. I don't even know what you mean by... a gift."
James chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Don't kid yourself. I've seen what you can do." His voice dropped lower, as if speaking the words with a weight that came from years of experience. "The way you throw those stones—how you can make them curve, how you control them midair—that's no ordinary skill. That's exactly what I used to do on the mound."
Daniel blinked, stunned. "What do you mean?"
James sat up straighter, his eyes locking onto Daniel's. "The way you throw those rocks—it's the same kind of precision, the same kind of control that I had as a pitcher. What you've got, kid, that's something special. You've got a gift for throwing, but it's not just throwing. You've got the ability to make it bend, to read the air and the distance and shape the throw just like a fastball. Do you understand?"
Daniel's heart raced, the realization sinking in. He hadn't thought of his throwing like that. To him, it was just something he did out of boredom or fun. But hearing it described that way made him feel like something else was possible. The weight of it—of his ability—pressed down on him, and for the first time, he felt the true power of his skill.
"James, I—" Daniel started to say, but he was interrupted.
"I saw it the first time you threw those rocks," James continued, his voice firm with conviction. "I watched you curve that stone over the creek, and I knew right then. You've got the kind of talent that could make you great. If you just learn how to use it, you could do things that even I never could."
Daniel swallowed hard, trying to digest the words. He had always thought his throwing was a mere curiosity—something that entertained Ruse and Clyde. But now James was talking like it was something more. Could it really be? Could his skill with stones translate to baseball?
"What do you want from me?" Daniel asked, his voice quiet, his heart pounding in his chest.
James shifted, sitting up straighter, his eyes locking onto Daniel's. "I want you to stop selling yourself short. I want you to realize that your ability, whatever you want to call it, could take you places. I want to help you find out just how far it can go."
Daniel looked away, feeling the weight of James's words settling into his chest. He had always known he could throw stones better than most—better than anyone in Stone Ridge, really. But that had never meant much. It was just a way to pass the time, to kill boredom with his friends. The idea of it being something more, something that could be shaped into a skill that belonged on a baseball field, felt absurd.
"What do you think, Daniel?" Gran's voice came from behind them. Daniel turned to see her standing by the cabin's door, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You've got a choice to make. You can stay here, in this little town, or you can take a leap into something bigger. But if you're going to step out there, you need to make sure you're ready."
Daniel stood up, the ground beneath his feet suddenly feeling unsteady. The decision felt too big, too final. But there was something inside him—something he couldn't ignore—that tugged him toward the unknown.
As he looked out over the mountains, the vast world beyond Stone Ridge felt closer than ever. Maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to leave behind the quiet life he had always known and embrace whatever future lay beyond it.
The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, Daniel didn't feel afraid. Instead, he felt something else: a spark of hope.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure what the future would hold, but he was willing to find out.
______
The next day, Daniel stood at the edge of the village, the morning sun casting long shadows over the dirt roads. James Larkin stood beside him, his expression unreadable but determined.
"I'm ready," Daniel said, his voice steady. "Let's see where this goes."
James nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "That's the spirit. The mound's waiting, kid. Let's go make some history."
And with that, the two of them turned, ready to leave the mountains behind, heading toward a future that was as uncertain as it was full of promise.
______
Now, James has seen Daniel's throwing ability, understood its potential, and offered his guidance. This pivotal moment helps Daniel realize the true scope of his gift, setting him on a new path.