The first thing Aarav noticed about Tokyo was how no one noticed him.
No lingering glances.
No selfies.
No stares trying to place the boy in the hoodie.
Just faces moving past him, fast and focused.
It felt like relief.
The cab from Narita moved through the city like a whisper. Buildings glided past the window — all glass and shadow. Neon signs in kanji he couldn't read glowed soft against the rainy afternoon. Even the traffic lights blinked politely, without screaming.
Everything here moved with quiet urgency.
Not like Delhi, where everything rushed without rhythm — loud, chaotic, full of uninvited questions.
Here, the silence was intentional.
Almost… respectful.
He pressed his forehead to the cold window.
Outside, people walked under umbrellas.
No one ran.
No one jostled.
No one shouted.
He let the silence soak into his hoodie.
The apartment was small.
Fourth floor. Single room. Folded futon, white walls, mini kitchen.
No TV. No personal touches. No cricket posters.
Which was perfect.
He stood by the window, looking out at the alley below.
It wasn't a view. Just the back wall of another building.
But at least it didn't talk.
He dropped his duffel near the door.
The towel-wrapped bat slid halfway out.
He didn't touch it.
Just pushed it back in with his foot and walked to the sink.
The water came out cold.
Sharp. Clean.
He washed his face slowly, like he was rinsing off the weight of a thousand Google searches, a million angry tweets.
His reflection stared back from the microwave door.
Hollow eyes.
Skin under stress.
A jaw that used to clench during pressure overs, now frozen in stillness.
He didn't unpack.
Didn't sit.
Didn't lie down.
Instead, he walked out.
The streets outside were wet but not flooded.
The rain here wasn't chaotic. It felt… precise. Measured. Like it had an appointment.
He wandered through alleys lined with vending machines — glowing blue boxes offering everything from coffee to corn soup.
One machine blinked at him.
BOSS COFFEE — BLACK. NO SUGAR.
He inserted a coin, pressed the button.
The can dropped with a soft thunk.
Cold.
Metallic.
No nonsense.
He popped the tab and took a sip.
It tasted like his mood — bitter, quiet, sharp.
There were no benches nearby, so he stood by the sidewalk, watching people pass.
Students in uniforms.
Office workers in suits.
An old woman walking a tiny dog with a raincoat.
They moved like rivers around rocks.
Nobody bumped into him.
Nobody asked what team he played for.
That was the strangest part.
For so long, he'd been public property.
A name. A number. A promise.
Now?
Now he was no one.
And it felt like breathing for the first time in months.
He wandered until the sky darkened and his coffee was empty.
When he returned to the apartment, the lights inside felt too white.
The room too bare.
He dropped the empty can into the bin.
Took off his hoodie.
Sat on the edge of the futon and stared at the duffel.
He knew what was inside.
The kit bag.
The towel-wrapped bat.
The gloves that still had sweat dried into the seams.
He didn't open it.
Just stared.
A knock.
Two short taps.
He froze.
Too soft to be the landlord.
Too polite to be a mistake.
He opened the door a few inches.
She stood there.
The girl from earlier — or was it a different one?
Short black hair.
Straight posture.
A school uniform with navy trim.
No smile.
She held out a box wrapped in pale cloth.
"Bento," she said in English. "From my mother. I live next door."
He didn't reply.
She placed it gently on the floor.
"No return needed," she added. "Just… eat."
Then she turned and walked away without waiting.
Aarav stared at the bento box.
Steam curled from the edge of the cloth.
He could smell soy sauce. Tamagoyaki.
And something oddly familiar — a note of garlic and turmeric, like a soft memory of home.
He picked it up.
Carried it inside.
Unwrapped it on the low table.
Two rice triangles.
Pickled radish.
Egg.
A small square of fried paneer — slightly under-spiced, slightly overcooked.
But close enough to unlock something.
He didn't cry.
Didn't eat it immediately either.
He just sat cross-legged in front of it, breathing in the steam like it might fill the silence inside him.
The next morning, he returned the empty bento to the door.
Didn't knock.
Just placed it there and walked off.
He found himself walking again.
No map.
No purpose.
Just the sound of his shoes on the wet sidewalk.
Somewhere between two blocks, he came across a baseball field.
Small. Empty. Fenced.
A cage stood on the side — automatic pitching machine, nets, buckets of used balls.
No one around.
He stood outside the fence for a while, watching.
Imagined stepping inside.
Imagined holding a bat again.
Then imagined missing.
He turned and walked away.
Back at the apartment, the bento had been replaced.
Same cloth. Different food.
He opened it.
Warm rice.
Green tea egg.
And miso tofu that tried — and failed — to resemble daal.
Still, he smiled.
Almost.
He sat on the floor.
Unwrapped the towel.
Stared at the bat.
He held it.
Just held it.
Not to swing.
Not to remember.
Just to remind himself it was real.
It still had the grip tape his father applied himself.
Still smelled like sweat and sun.
But now it also smelled like someone who no longer played.
He set it down.
Didn't wrap it again.
Just let it sit beside him, quiet.
That night, he wrote a message.
Thank you. For the food.
No name.
No emojis.
Slipped it into the bento cloth and placed the box outside.
The next day, there was no reply.
Just another box.
Still warm.
Still silent.
Inside the box, beneath the rice and seaweed…
a folded paper napkin with one word handwritten in thin, black ink:
"Welcome."