Three years has passed.

  Time passed like sand through fingers.

  But Souta never moved on. He carried his brother with him, everywhere.

  Now, standing alone on mound, Souta was a bit taller now.

  Leaner frame.

  His features had sharpened slightly.

  But inside, part of him was still that trembling kid, seeing his older brother dying slowly.

  His grip on the ball tighter.

  He closed his eyes.

  Three years ago, Riku had stepped in as a pitcher during a summer game.

  The batter never meant to hit that foul ball.

  For him to collapse instantly.

  Souta raised the ball and wound up. His body remembered every drill Riku ever taught him: angle your elbow, don’t twist the wrist too early, follow through.

  He threw.

  The ball cracked into the old backstop. Alone. Echoing.

  No mitt to catch it.

  But Souta nodded.

  This had become his routine.

  After throwing some pitch he walked over to his bag and pulled out a folded letter.

  The paper was creased and faded.

  A birthday letter.

  One Riku had written but never got to give. Souta had found it weeks after the funeral, hidden inside an old glove.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  But Souta had never opened it.

  Not when he first found it.

  Not even when he spent nights clutching it to his chest in tears.

  Because he wasn’t ready.

  “I thought if I read it… it would feel real,” he murmured. “Like you were really gone.”

  He unfolded it now.

  The paper crackled as he opened it. His eyes scanned the familiar handwriting.

  > “Yo, Souta.

  Happy birthday, little bro. I know I’m always teasing you, calling you slow, saying your pitches are floaty and all that—but you know that’s just how brothers are, right?

  Honestly… you remind me a lot of myself when I started. Clumsy. Always second-guessing. But what I see in you that I never had is heart. You care too much. And that’s not a weakness—it’s your strength.

  You keep showing up. You try even when it’s hard. That’s what makes you a real ballplayer. Not talent. Not speed. Not perfect pitches. It’s that stubborn fire in you that keeps burning, even when the world gets cold.

  I know sometimes you feel like you’re in my shadow. Like you gotta be the next ‘Riku Hayami.’ But screw that. Be Souta Hayami. Be the version of you that never stops fighting—even when it hurts.

  You won’t always win. You’ll lose games. You’ll mess up. You’ll want to quit. But if you remember one thing from me, let it be this:

  You only fail when you stop throwing.

  So keep going, I'll support you no matter what lil bro hehe.

  Souta lowered the letter slowly, hands shaking.

  Tears blurred his vision—but he didn’t cry.

  Instead, he smiled faintly, his chest swelling with something heavier than grief. Something deeper.

  Closure.

  He looked at his hand, the same one that held every pitch, every bruise, every memory.

  Then, with a breath, he whispered:

  “Even if I’m not good. Even if I still throw like a beginner. Even if people laugh.”

  He clenched his fist.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll work harder than anyone.

  “I may never be like you, Riku…”

  “…But I’ll be me. And I’ll earn my place.”

  “I’m not there yet. But someday, I will be. I’ll stand on that tournament mound as an ace pitcher.

  He back to the mound.

  He raised his arm again, his form steadier, eyes filled with silent fire.

  The pitch flew forward—fast, clean, proud.

  “I’m going to high school now, Riku,” he whispered.

  Wind rustled the grass. A bird chirped from the dugout rooftop. The silence was full—not empty.

  “I'll keep going,” he said. “Until I make it. Until everyone knows."

  He threw over and over again--his fingers stinging, his shoulder burning.

  “This is my promise, Riku.

  For everything you taught me. Even if it takes everything I have.”

  "I'll show them that i can beat anyone thru harwork."

  With one final pitch, the ball tore through the silence and slammed into the backstop.

  After he finished pitching, he sat down on the ground and noticed that it was getting late.

  He start packing up his things, and left the field in silence.

  ---

  When he got home, the house was dark and still. His parents was working late, again. They never really talked about Riku anymore, especially his mother her eyes always change when his name is came up.

  As if holding it too long might shatter her.

  Souta went upstairs to his room.

  The posters on his wall were the same: major league players, anime characters, one faded photo from years ago—him and Riku side by side, holding up a trophy like it was a crown.

  He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as his heart wrestled with the thought that had been quietly growing all summer.

  The high school baseball team.

  He looked at his hand—the fingers calloused from pitching, even though he hadn’t played on a team on elementary in nearly a year. His body remembered every drill, every motion.

  He looked down, fingers curling lightly into fists.

  "I can do this.”

  Another breath.

  “I have work. I have grit. I have this fire in me that won’t go out, no matter how many times I fail.”

  His voice was steady now, quiet but burning.

  He sat up straighter, his eyes fixed ahead as if Riku were right there, listening.

  “I’ll be the pitcher who got there through every drop of sweat. Every bruise. Every tear. Even if they say I’m no good… even if I’m not meant for this…”

  “I swear, I’ll become the greatest pitcher. Not because I was born to. But because I chose to.”

  The room was quiet again.

  But the silence had changed.

  Now, it felt like Riku was there—just beyond the edge of the light—smiling, proud.

  Then, finally, he reached into the drawer, pulled out a sticky note, and scribbled something simple:

  "Don't Stop Pitching."

  He pressed it to the desk.

  Then, after a long pause, he smiled faintly and whispered,

  “Watch me, Riku.”