The sun was just beginning to set over the quiet neighborhood park.

  The golden sunlight stretched shadows across the dirt field.

  Nine-year-old Souta Hayami stood awkwardly near the pitcher’s mound, holding an old glove far too big for his hand.

  He was supposed to bring it home.

  It belonged to his brother, Riku Hayami—the pride of their high school baseball team, a promising pitcher with a fastball.Riku had forgotten his glove again after practice, and Souta had come to retrieve it. But instead of turning back, something made him stay.

  Maybe it was the memory of watching Riku pitch. Maybe it was how the dirt field shimmered in the afternoon sun. Or maybe it was something else—something deeper, waiting to bloom.

  He saw a stray ball near second base. He picked it up, walked hesitantly to the mound, and stared toward home plate.

  He mimicked the pose he’d seen countless times.

  Leg up.

  Elbow high.

  Eyes on an invisible catcher.

  He threw.

  The ball wobbled and bounced long before reaching the plate.

  Souta grimaced. “That was terrible.”

  But something about it—the throw, the feeling in his chest when he let the ball fly—made him smile.

  He tried again. And again. Until a voice startled him.

  “Souta?”

  It was Riku, still in his uniform, holding a bat, his forehead beaded with sweat.

  “You stealing my job already?” he grinned.

  “I wanted to try…” Souta said. “I don’t know why. But when I throw it, I feel—like my heart beats faster. Like I wanna keep throwing.”

  Riku chuckled, stepped closer, and crouched beside him.

  “That’s the first sign you might love the game.”

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  Souta looked up. “Can you teach me?”

  Riku ruffled his hair. “I’ll teach you everything I know. But you better be ready to work harder than anyone.”

  That summer became their bond. Every evening, they trained—Riku coaching, Souta mimicking. The older brother’s voice became Souta’s rhythm, his presence the sun around which Souta’s world revolved.

  --

  Then came the game.

  The stands were alive with chatter. It was a weekend exhibition match between Seihoku High—Riku’s team—and a local powerhouse school known for producing pro-level hitters. The air was electric, a mix of anticipation and early summer heat.

  Souta sat in the front row, his tiny hands gripping the railing, his eyes wide with admiration. He wore Riku’s old team cap, slightly oversized on his head.

  On the mound stood Riku Hayami, calm and focused. His jersey bore the number 11, slightly stained with dust and sweat.

  He adjusted his cap, rolled his shoulders, and glanced toward Souta in the stands.

  He gave a small nod.

  Souta beamed.

  Riku had pitched six scoreless innings. His fastball topped out at 146 km/h, nothing too flashy by elite standards, but his precision and mental game were elite.

  He worked the corners, played the batters like chess pieces.

  Scouts took notes. One even whispered, “Kid’s got the poise of a college-level ace.”

  Then came the top of the seventh.

  A new batter stepped in—Masaki Domoto, the cleanup hitter from the opposing team.

  Tall.

  Built.

  Known for home runs. He’d already crushed two in previous games.

  Riku narrowed his eyes.

  First pitch: high fastball, brushing the edge. Ball.

  Second pitch: inside slider. Masaki didn’t bite. Ball two.

  Riku exhaled.

  Third pitch: fastball low and inside. Masaki fouled it off. 2-1.

  Catcher signaled for a changeup.

  Riku nodded. Wound up. Released.

  CRACK!

  Masaki swung hard—too early. But the timing wasn’t just off—it was dangerous.

  The aluminum bat connected with the bottom of the ball, and instead of flying out to the field, it was redirected—

  A screaming line drive.

  Straight back toward the mound.

  It happened in less than a second.

  The ball struck Riku’s temple with a sickening thunk—like a hammer on soft wood.

  He collapsed.

  No stagger. No groan.

  Just silence.

  The field froze.

  Then chaos.

  The umpire dropped his mask. Coaches sprinted. The crowd gasped. Souta dropped his cap and bolted down the steps, eyes wide with terror.

  “Riku!!”

  Paramedics arrived minutes later. Riku was still breathing—barely. Blood pooled in the dirt beside his head. The coach kept repeating, “Stay with us, Riku. Stay with us.”

  He was rushed to the hospital.

  A skull fracture. Brain hemorrhaging. Swelling they couldn’t stop.

  One week later, after slipping into a coma, Riku passed away.

  The accident made local headlines. The opposing batter Masaki cried publicly during interviews. He quit baseball for a while.

  But Souta didn’t think about him.

  The funeral was quiet. No speeches, no eulogies from teammates—just the soft hum of umbrellas opening and the sound of wet soil being shoveled over a casket.

  Souta stood in front of the grave, shoes soaked, his thin arms clinging to the baseball Riku had once given him.

  It still had his brother’s initials scribbled in blue ink.

  He didn’t cry at first.

  Not even when their mother collapsed to her knees, choking on her sobs.

  But when the casket began to lower—slowly, inevitably—something inside him cracked.

  He dropped the ball.

  “No…!”

  He tried to scramble forward, as if he could reach his brother one last time. But his father held him back, arms trembling.

  Souta thrashed.

  “Let me go! That’s my Onii-chan! I didn’t even say goodbye! I didn’t—”

  All eyes turned to the boy drenched in rain, his knees hitting the mud as he broke free and fell beside the grave. The world blurred through tears.

  “You promised me, remember? You said you'd watch me pitch someday…” he sobbed, his voice thin, hoarse. “You said we’d go to Koshien together!”

  No one spoke. Even the coach, a stern man of few words, bowed his head.

  Souta reached down into the dirt and picked up the ball, now smeared with mud. He held it close to his heart and looked at the coffin disappearing into the earth.

  “I’m not good at this. I can’t pitch. I’m not fast. I’m not strong.”

  The rain fell harder.

  “But I’m not gonna stop.”

  His voice steadied, just slightly.

  “I’ll work harder than anyone. I’ll get stronger—even if it takes years. And one day… I’ll stand on that mound, Onii-chan. I’ll become the ace pitcher you never got to be.”

  He stood, mud on his knees, rain in his hair, clutching the ball like it was his brother’s soul.

  “I’ll carry your dream. I swear.”

  And beneath that stormy sky, with the grave sealing beneath him, Souta Hayami made his vow.