The bat wasn't heavy.
Not yet.
It just sat beside him, quiet as the city outside.
Leaning against the wall, the grip frayed at the edge, still holding the ghost of his father's tape job.
Aarav stared at it from across the room.
He hadn't picked it up since Tokyo.
Not really.
He'd held it.
Touched it.
But not like a player.
More like someone checking if an old wound still hurt.
It did.
That morning, he walked further than usual.
The city smelled like rain and fish broth.
Schoolkids passed him on bicycles, laughing in a language he couldn't understand.
An old man offered free tissue packets outside a convenience store.
No one stopped him.
No one stared.
That part still surprised him.
Still unsettled him, in a good way.
He didn't mean to find the batting center.
It just… appeared.
Tucked between a laundromat and a sushi shop, the entrance was narrow, the sign faded: "Miyamoto Batting Cage – Since 1997."
He stood outside, staring at the red letters.
The sound of balls thudding against nets came from inside.
Soft. Rhythmic. Familiar.
He hadn't heard that sound in months.
And yet, it played perfectly in his memory.
He stepped inside.
The place smelled like rubber, dust, and teenage sweat.
Old posters of Japanese baseball stars lined the walls.
One corner had a vending machine.
Another, a tiny front desk with no one manning it.
He didn't ask questions.
Just watched.
Five cages.
Three occupied.
Kids — probably middle schoolers — giggling as they missed.
Their swings were terrible.
Their laughter was not.
Aarav sat on a bench near the farthest cage.
Watched a boy who couldn't have been more than thirteen swing with all his weight.
He missed.
Swung again.
Missed again.
Then connected — barely.
The ball bounced off the bat and rolled to the side.
The boy's friend clapped.
No one mocked him.
No one said "useless" or "you've ruined everything."
They just kept playing.
Aarav's chest ached.
He didn't know why.
He just knew it had nothing to do with cricket.
And everything to do with what cricket had done to him.
He looked down at his hands.
Calluses still there, faded but present.
He stood.
Walked to the token machine.
Inserted a coin.
Cage 4 blinked.
He walked in slowly.
Held the bat for a second.
Then put it aside.
He wasn't here to play.
Not yet.
He just wanted to stand where it was allowed again.
The machine whirred.
Ball launched.
He didn't swing.
Just let it pass.
Another ball.
Another.
Still. Silent. Eyes on nothing.
On the third ball, he closed his eyes.
He was in Delhi again.
Green pitch.
Flashing cameras.
His father's folded arms in the stands.
The fifty that never came.
He felt the sound of that one missed shot in his bones.
And the crowd —
turning.
He opened his eyes.
Back in Tokyo.
Empty cage.
Soft lights.
A few kids giggling near Cage 1.
No chants.
No expectations.
Just breath.
The next ball thudded against the net.
It startled him.
He picked up the bat.
Not to swing — just to hold.
Even that made his shoulders tighten.
His grip trembled.
He hated how familiar it still felt.
And how alien.
Behind him, someone spoke.
Soft.
Clear.
"You're not swinging."
He turned.
It was her.
Hana.
Same calm eyes.
No uniform this time — just a navy jacket and jeans.
She held a bottle of water and something wrapped in a napkin.
"I wasn't planning to," he said.
His voice sounded rough in his own ears.
She stepped closer, but not too close.
"You came in."
"Yeah."
"You held the bat."
"I did."
"You're lying to yourself."
He looked at her, surprised.
She didn't flinch.
"I wasn't watching," she added. "I was passing by. I heard the balls. And saw you standing still."
She placed the water on the bench.
Set the napkin beside it.
Food, probably.
She turned to leave, then paused.
"Just because you're not playing doesn't mean you've stopped."
Then walked out.
He sat down slowly.
Unwrapped the napkin.
Rice ball.
A square of tamagoyaki.
Nothing special.
Everything important.
He ate in silence.
That night, he lay on the futon, the bat beside him — unwrapped.
He hadn't swung.
Hadn't hit.
Hadn't even tried.
But his hands still ached.
Not from movement.
From memory.
He closed his eyes and whispered the same words he had whispered in Delhi,
just before boarding that plane—
"I don't want to play anymore."
But this time, they didn't sound final.
They sounded scared.