The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the baseball field as Shinjiro wiped the sweat from his brow. He had just finished another drill, but it felt like he hadn't even been there. His movements were mechanical, his body going through the motions while his mind was trapped elsewhere. He kept thinking of his grandmother, her face flashing in and out of his mind, like a memory refusing to stay buried.

Coach Nakamura had been watching from the dugout, arms crossed, his sharp eyes tracking Shinjiro's sluggish performance. He noticed the way Shinjiro's throws had lost their precision, how his running lacked its usual intensity, and his swings fell flat with a hollow ring. It wasn't just fatigue—it was something deeper. Nakamura had been coaching long enough to recognize when a player's heart wasn't in the game.

"Alright, that's enough for today," Nakamura called out, signaling the end of the session.

The players began to disperse, but Shinjiro stood still in the outfield, staring at his glove, lost in thought. Emiko had told the coach earlier about the loss of Shinjiro's grandmother, and it had confirmed what he suspected all practice. The boy wasn't in the right headspace to be on the field.

As the others packed up, Nakamura walked across the grass toward Shinjiro, his footsteps soft but deliberate. He stopped a few feet away, allowing Shinjiro a moment to notice him.

"Shinjiro," Nakamura said, his voice firm but not harsh.

Shinjiro blinked and looked up, startled out of his daze. "Coach…"

Nakamura continued, his tone even. "I know you're dealing with a lot right now."

"I'm fine," Shinjiro muttered, trying to sound convincing. He picked up a ball from the ground and tossed it lightly into the air, catching it again, but the gesture lacked his usual confidence. "I just… need to keep myself occupied. "

Nakamura watched him for a moment, then stepped closer, his expression softening. "I understand what you're trying to do, but this isn't something you can just push through. Grief doesn't work like that."

Shinjiro swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "I'm okay," he insisted, though his voice wavered. "I don't want to fall behind. The team needs me."

Nakamura shook his head gently. "What the team needs is for you to take care of yourself. You're no good to us if you're not in the right frame of mind. And besides, you won't be playing in the third round this weekend."

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Shinjiro flinched and thought about the funeral, his chest tightening.

"I can't just…." he said, his voice barely above a whisper."

Nakamura placed a hand on Shinjiro's shoulder, his grip firm but supportive. "Your grandmother would want you to mourn, Shinjiro. She'd want you to honor her, not bury your grief under baseball. Take the week off. Be with your family."

For a moment, Shinjiro felt anger rise up in his chest—he wanted to argue, to fight back, to insist that he needed to be on the field. But as he looked into Nakamura's steady gaze, the fight drained out of him. The truth was, he was tired. Tired of pretending everything was okay, tired of trying to outrun the pain that had been chasing him since he heard the news.

Reluctantly, Shinjiro nodded, though it felt like a defeat. "Okay, Coach," he muttered, his shoulders slumping.

Nakamura patted his shoulder. "Good. Now go home."

---

Shinjiro didn't go straight home. Instead, he found himself walking the familiar path to his grandmother's house, his feet carrying him there out of instinct. It was a house nestled among a row of cherry blossom trees that were just beginning to bloom. The sight of the house brought a lump to Shinjiro's throat—he had spent so much of his childhood there, playing in the garden, listening to his grandmother's stories, eating her home-cooked meals.

As he reached the front door, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. It felt strange to enter the house knowing she wouldn't be there to greet him. But he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of her cooking still lingering in the air, as if she had just stepped out of the kitchen.

The house was quiet, almost too quiet. He stood in the entryway for a moment, unsure of where to go. His feet seemed to move on their own, leading him toward the room at the back of the house.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a room filled with memories. The walls were lined with shelves, each one holding small treasures: framed photographs, old letters, and medals from years long past. In the center of the room was a table, and on it lay a black baseball glove and a bat—his grandfather's.

Shinjiro approached the table, his fingers lightly brushing the worn leather of the glove. His grandfather had been a passionate baseball player, a local hero of sorts. He had been the one to teach Shinjiro's father how to play, and in turn, his father had passed that love of the game down to him.

On the shelf above the glove, Shinjiro noticed an old, worn-out baseball, its leather cracked and faded. He smiled faintly, the memory of playing catch with his grandmother surfacing in his mind. She had always been there for him, even when he was just a boy, tossing the ball back and forth in the backyard. She wasn't the strongest, but she always played along, laughing with him as he ran around the yard, pretending to hit home runs.

A tear slipped down his cheek, and then another, until he couldn't hold them back anymore. He let himself cry, standing there in the quiet of the room, the memories flooding him.

After what felt like hours, Shinjiro wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked down at the glove and the bat once more, his fingers tracing the outline of his grandfather's initials, S.T engraved on the side. It felt right to take them with him, as if he was carrying a piece of his family's legacy forward.

He picked up the bat, feeling its weight in his hands, and then grabbed the ball. The leather was soft from years of use, but it still had life in it. He tucked them both under his arm and headed for the door.

Before he left the room, he glanced back at the pictures on the wall—one in particular catching his eye. It was an old photograph of his grandfather, smiling as he held a young Hiroshi—Shinjiro's father—in his arms. There was something about the photo that made Shinjiro chuckle softly. Hiroshi looked carefree, laughing in his father's arms.

Shinjiro left the house, the bat and ball in hand, feeling a little lighter. He didn't know what the future held, but as he walked down the path toward home, he knew one thing for certain: he would carry his grandparents' love for the game with him, both on and off the field.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to get him through this.