Haruki's house, now facing the sea, had adopted the rhythm of the waves. Silent, constant,
open. There were no longer agendas, no calendars, no campaigns. Only notebooks, letters and visits
Unexpected.
One winter afternoon, while brewing tea, I hear footsteps on the porch. When I open the door,
found Junpei. More adult, more serene, but with the same burning gaze.
"I just wanted to see you," he said.
"And I had a cup ready," Haruki replied.
They sat in front of the window. Junpei came from a city where he was training coaches
for vulnerable contexts. He had traveled unannounced, with only a backpack and a notebook full of
Questions.
Do you think gambling can still heal someone?
Haruki didn't respond immediately. He took his cup, looked at the sea, and said:
I don't know if it always heals. But it always accompanies. And that is enough.
Junpei pulled out a folded sheet.
I'm writing something. But I think you need to read it yourself first.
Haruki looked at him. I knew that the pass, once again, had just begun.
Junpei's letter was not a linear narrative. It was written like a diary, with single sentences,
drawings, loose ideas. He talked about children who did not know how to read but understood the game; of
young people
that they only spoke when they ran; of silences that said more than many classes.
"I'm not sure this would make for a book," Junpei said, somewhat embarrassed.
"It serves something more important," Haruki replied. It serves to look again.
For days, they worked together. They didn't edit, they shared. They did not correct, they explored. Sometimes
They talked for hours, sometimes just walking. The house became a small memory workshop
and future.
One morning, Haruki found Junpei on the porch, writing intensely. When I'm done,
I pass him the notebook.
I want this to be yours too.
On the cover, he had written:
Chapter 0: Because there was someone who waited for me without rushing.
Haruki said nothing. I just place that notebook next to the others.
And he thought that, perhaps, the story didn't need to move forward.
Just to return with other faces.
As the days passed, more visitors began to arrive. Some knocked on the door, others
they simply appeared with a smile and a story to tell.
Riku arrived one morning with his young daughter, Hana. The girl did not let go of a rag ball that
she had made it herself.
"He says it's for you," Riku said.
Haruki took it as if it were a trophy.
What's your name? Wonder.
It has no name. Because it belongs to everyone, Hana replied.
That phrase remained floating in the air like a perfect lesson. In that house, they began to
to coexist generations, moments, pasts and futures.
Every night, Haruki would light a lamp and open a new notebook. But he no longer wrote in
lonely. Each page had fragments of others: phrases by Junpei, drawings by Hana, anecdotes of
Riku, thoughts of former students who were now teachers.
On the cover he wrote: Book without author.
Because he understood that the legacy did not need an owner. Space only.
And so, without realizing it, Haruki didn't just keep playing.
He had teamed up again.
One night, as the rain beat softly against the roof of the house, Souta appeared in the
door. I didn't have a suitcase or prior notice. Just a folded umbrella and a crumpled envelope in your hand.
He didn't know where else to go, he said.
"You always knew," Haruki replied, opening the door for him.
They sat down by the fire. Souta spoke little, as always, but his silences were full
of meaning. He opened the envelope. It was a letter written by a young man he had met at one of his
workshops. In it he talked about how a simple dynamic had given him back the desire to get up.
I didn't do anything special, Souta said.
Sometimes it's enough to be in the right place, Haruki answered.
That night, no one wrote anything. There were no open notebooks. Just talk, hot tea and
long pauses. As if time had stopped to give thanks.
The next morning, Souta left a note next to the empty cup:
Chapter 13.2: When Listening Is Also a Pass.
Haruki put it away without reading it twice.
Because I understood everything.
Haruki's house became a crossing point. It was not a museum or a school, but each
visit left a mark. Someone brought a notebook full of errors that he asked to share. Another, a
empty notebook looking for inspiration. No one arrived with certainties, but everyone left with questions
New.
One afternoon, Mei showed up with a box. Inside, there were dozens of letters illustrated by children from
different countries that had participated in workshops inspired by his visual work. They were not signed,
but each contained a word:
Thank you.
Game.
Here.
We.
Haruki placed them on a large table. They formed a story without a narrator. A map without lines. One
Manual without instructions.
What are you going to do with them? Mei asked.
Nothing answered. Let them stay here. Let those who need to see them see them.
That same night, a young man knocked on the door. He came from afar, with a different accent and bright eyes.
Is it true that here they teach how to pass?
Haruki invited him in without saying a word.
The young man's name was Niko. He had heard about the movement in an international forum and decided to
Traveling without much certainty. He carried with him a ball signed by his community, where the adults
and children played together every Friday in a dilapidated square.
We don't have much, he said. But we have time to pass.
Haruki listened carefully. For several days, they shared walks, readings, silences.
Niko asked, wrote down, deleted. He was not looking for formulas. I was looking for meaning.
One afternoon, he sat in front of the sea with one of Haruki's notebooks.
I want to open a place like this. But I don't know if I will know how to do it.
If you're hesitating, you're already doing well, Haruki said. Those who teach with certainty tend to
forget those who are left behind.
Niko wrote that sentence as if it were a title. He turned it into a poster, a slogan, a seed.
When he left, he left a sheet of paper on the table:
Chapter 13.3: When the Sea Gives You Back the Voice You Thought You Lost.
Haruki watched him walk away with the same peace with which he had received him.
The next season brought with it new voices. Some were old friends, others complete
Unknown. They all shared a common story: at some point, someone had told them
passed a ball, a question, an opportunity.
Ami arrived one morning with a proposal. I had been working on a training program
for teachers, based on the narrative of the games.
I want us to validate it together, he said. Not as experts. As people who have failed and
Learned.
They spent days reviewing testimonies, adapting activities, translating emotions into the language of
classrooms. They did not talk about grades or evaluations. They spoke of listening, of time, of gaze.
The manual they created was titled Instructions for Not Having All the Answers. They sent it in
format open to any school that requests it.
Soon emails arrived from different countries: Thank you for not explaining everything. Finally something that is
Feel like us. My students look different since we used this.
Haruki didn't answer all of them. But he read each one as if he were receiving a new pass.
One day, Haruki received an invitation to attend the inauguration of a school that
it bore his name. It was not his decision, nor had he asked for it. But the community had
decided as a tribute.
We want children to grow up knowing that teaching can also be a gentle act, said the
director.
The school was in the mountains. The hallways were colorful, the classrooms round, and there were no
Ringers. Each class began with a game dynamic and ended with a space of
reflection in circles.
Haruki toured the place without saying much. In every corner, I saw a loose seed that someone else
He had taken care.
In the central courtyard, a mural painted by students showed a ball traveling between people
different countries, ages. In the center, a sentence:
The pass is the only thing that is not kept.
Haruki asked to stay one more night. I wanted to see what the silence sounded like there when there was no
people. Asleep in the library, he woke up with a notebook on his chest. There was no name. Alone
a written page:
Thank you for teaching us that the longest pass is the one that starts without knowing where it will end.
Upon returning home, Haruki found his mailbox full. Not of official papers, but of small
things: postcards, drawings, dry sheets, handwritten letters, photos. Most of them without a clear sender.
All with something that united him: someone had happened something.
One in particular moved him. It was from a young man with a visual impairment who wrote in Braille. The
letter said:
I play by imagining. I see when they invite me.
Haruki placed that letter in the center of his desk. Not as an ornament, but as a compass.
As the days went by, she decided to create a new space in her home: a small living room.
correspondence. There he hung every message received, every anonymous note. Anyone who visited
he could read them, rearrange them, add his own.
This is not an archive he said. It's a game that isn't over yet.
A visitor left a phrase written on the wall:
Chapter 13.7: When a Letter Doesn't Ask for a Response, He Just Wants to Keep Traveling.
And so, the game kept spinning.
No maps.
Without an owner.
Only with intention.
A group of former students proposed to create a collective anthology with texts, poems, illustrations and
games born of movement. It would have no index or traditional order. It would be a book-circle, where
each reader could enter wherever he wanted.
They called it The Book That Doesn't Begin.
Haruki was invited to write a page. He wrote only this:
If you're reading this, you're already in.
The book was printed on recycled paper, distributed free of charge, and read aloud in squares, trains,
schools and hospitals. An older woman said after hearing it:
I felt like I was invited to play, even though I don't run anymore.
And that was enough.
The day the first edition arrived at home, Haruki did not open it. I place it next to his first notebook,
He closed his eyes, and thanked him in silence.
That night, he jotted down a new line:
Chapter 13.8: When the echo of the game turns into shelter.
The next day, he received a visit from a girl who brought a drawing. It showed two figures passing over
something invisible.
What are they sharing? Wonder.
The possibility replied the girl.
Days later, Kaori sent a message from abroad. I was working on a project with
migrant communities, where play was a common language tool.
They don't share a language, but they understand the pass, he wrote. They ask me to show them well. And I
I tell them that it is enough to look.
Haruki replied with a single line:
So you're teaching perfect.
Inspired, Kaori proposed organizing a world day of games without language. Each place would choose
a dynamic in which you will not talk, you will only intuit. The results were surprising.
Videos came from corners of the planet where children and adults played with looks, gestures,
pauses, rhythms.
One of those videos showed two children, one hearing impaired and one afraid
stage, organizing a shadow game in the playground of his school. The game had no name,
but everyone wanted to participate.
At the end, one of the teachers wrote:
Chapter 13.9: When the game is not translated, it is understood.
Haruki kept that title in his notebook.
I knew the stories would continue.
And that he no longer needed to guide them.
One morning, while Haruki was watering his small garden, a young stranger arrived on a bicycle.
He dressed simply, with a notebook hanging around his neck as if it were a badge.
Are you the one who started all this? Wonder.
I was just the first to wonder if there was another way.
The young man, whose name was Leo, asked to stay a few days. I didn't want answers, I wanted to observe.
He took note of everything: the way Haruki folded the tablecloths, how he greeted the birds,
how he arranged the books on the shelf.
I still don't understand how the pass without the ball works, he said one afternoon.
"Because you can't see it," Haruki replied. But it is felt.
Leo wrote that as the title of his notebook. When he left, he left a sentence on the board at the entrance:
Chapter 13.10: When Living Becomes a Way of Teaching.
Haruki read it the next day. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't write anything.
He just sat in front of the sea and listened to the waves passing by too.
The end of the season brought with it an unexpected card. It came from the Ministry of Education
from a distant country. They had been using the texts and materials of the movement to design
Public policies for teacher training.
They did not ask for permission.
They just wanted to say: Thank you. This is working.
Haruki showed the letter to Ami when she went to visit him. She was excited, but not surprised.
It was a matter of time, he said.
Or by passing he corrected.
During that visit, they went through the old notebooks together. There were drawings of children who were
already
Phrases that now circulated in other languages, dynamics that were replicated without names.
What if one day no one remembers your name? Ami asked.
That would be the best legacy, Haruki replied. It means that the pass no longer needs to be presented.
Ami was silent, and then wrote on a loose sheet:
Chapter 13.11: When to teach is to leave a mark without leaving a signature.
They placed that sheet in the center of the desk.
And they did not talk about it again.
The game was already going on on its own.
On a day of persistent rain, Haruki received a video call from a community library in
another continent. The children wanted to show him something: they had dedicated an entire shelf to books.
that invite you to play. Among them, were handmade copies of his translated, illustrated notebooks
by themselves.
What would you like us to add? A girl asked him.
An empty space answered. So that it can be filled by those who still do not dare.
The connection was cut off shortly after, but the smile remained. That night, Haruki wrote:
Chapter 13.12: When the Echo Comes Before Your Voice.
The next day, he received an email from Itsuki. I had started a new project with young people in
reintegration. Instead of training, they made notebooks. Each week they chose a word:
Sorry, look, beginning. Then they played at writing about it without saying it.
We discovered that playing with words is also a way to run without fear, the message said.
Haruki replied with one word: Thank you.
There was no need for more.
Because the pass, although silent, was still rolling.
Over the next month, Haruki began to prepare something special: a wooden box with the
most symbolic objects of his path. It was not a museum. It was a capsule for someone who, in
some future, it will need a clue.
I place inside:
a cloth ball,
his first notebook,
a sheet with the word trust,
a photo of the empty gym,
a letter without a return address,
and a note that read:
If you got this far, it's because the game already found you.
He buried her under a sapling in the backyard. Unceremonious. Only with intention.
A few days later, he received a visit from Hana, now a teenager. He brought with him a new ball, this one
once painted by her. He didn't come with questions, but with ideas. He showed him a schematic of a network of
interscholastic game based only on creative encounters.
I don't want them to learn how to compete. I want them to learn to notice.
Haruki listened to her as if he saw a new star.
And he knew that the relay was underway.
Haruki began to write less and less. Not because of tiredness, but because the stories spoke
on their own. Every letter that arrived, every anecdote that someone shared in the room, every child
that he asked without fear, became a new chapter without the need for ink.
One day, when he opened his inbox, he found a message that said simply:
Can I start from where you left off?
Haruki replied:
If you understood that, you've already started.
That afternoon, he walked to the nearest hill. From there, you could see the sea, the fields, and the
a path that connected with the city. I carry a new notebook with me. On the first page,
Wrote:
Chapter 14: For those who pass by and do not yet know that they can stay.
And he left it there, on the wooden bench that so many others had used before.
Someone will find it.
And the game, as always,
it would keep moving.
Weeks later, a boy of about nine years old arrived at Haruki's house accompanied by his
mother. He didn't talk much, but he observed everything. He walked to the notebook shelf, chose
one at random and opened it silently.
Can I write something? I ask shyly.
Haruki nodded and offered him a pencil.
The boy sat down on the floor and wrote on the back cover:
Chapter 100: When You Didn't Know You Were Learning, But You Already Knew How to Pass.
Then he closed the notebook, put it back in its place, and left without saying more.
Haruki was silent for a few minutes.
I walk to the window.
And then he understood:
the game had never belonged to him.
He had only held the space for a while.
And now, with each pass,
it was the world that sustained him.