Afternoon classes passed in a haze. Social Studies asked questions about identity and the place of sport in culture, and Takeshi's pen hovered, thoughts tangled. Later, in maths class, Takeshi's mind was a different kind of battlefield. Numbers and formulas—things concrete, logical—offered a rare refuge from the swirling emotions of the day. His pen moved steadily, his answers precise and confident. Despite the fog that clouded other parts of his life, maths remained a stronghold.
Mr. Ishida, watching from the front of the room, caught glimpses of this steadfastness. He had heard rumours about Takeshi's past—about the tragedy, the long absence, the whispers of a boy lost in grief. Yet here he was, quietly excelling in a subject that demanded focus and discipline.
The teacher's gaze lingered on Takeshi longer than usual, a mixture of concern and hope flickering behind his eyes. There's a fire beneath that calm, Mr. Ishida thought. A boy who's fighting to reclaim more than just his place in the school—maybe even himself.
As Takeshi solved a particularly tricky equation, Mr. Ishida wondered if maths might be the key—not just to unlocking knowledge, but to helping Takeshi find a foothold amid the chaos. If only he knew how to reach him beyond the numbers…
The bell rang, drawing the class back to the present. Takeshi packed away his notebook with a quiet determination. He was still piecing together who he was now, but for the first time in a long while, he could glimpse a path forward—even if it was just one equation at a time.
Takeshi found Kaori waiting, handing him a note about gear and training groups. Her eyes said more than words; her quiet support steadied him.
Outside the gates, Yuki raced to him, her laughter lifting the dusk. She pressed a drawing into his hand—bright colours, hopeful lines.
As they walked home, the city lights flickered to life, a tapestry of possibility.
But the day's journey was not yet done.
Kenji was already waiting at the station entrance, standing tall with his usual quiet confidence, one hand in his coat pocket, the other raised in greeting. "Let's get you set up," he said with a small nod, his tone gentle but steady—like he understood Takeshi's hesitation before it even needed saying.
Takeshi followed, the morning cold biting through his uniform blazer. He kept his eyes low as they walked. The city bustled around them, but it all felt like background noise, muffled under the weight of memory.
The train ride blurred past in streaks of steel and flickering reflections. Takeshi sat stiffly, his gear bag clutched tight in his lap. His gaze drifted to the window, catching a distorted reflection of himself—older than he remembered, eyes harder. His mind flickered, unbidden, to the last time he held his mother's hand in the hospital. Her voice had been barely a whisper, but it still echoed in him. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Takeshi. Just keep going."
He swallowed hard and looked away. The sports shop was tucked into a side street—a clean, modern place lined with sharp lines and soft lighting. The air inside smelled of waxed bases, oiled leather, and cold ambition.
Kenji led the way. "You remember the feel of it, right?" he asked, tone casual. "Edge against snow. Wind in your face."
Takeshi gave a small nod. "I remember." I remember flying. And crashing. And silence.
He didn't say that part out loud. Kenji stopped in front of a wall lined with skis—ranks of sleek tools, each with its own purpose. "We're going to need a full quiver for you. One for each event."
He pulled a long pair from the top rack, almost reverently. "Downhill first. These are 220s. Stiff flex, full camber, meant for straight-line speed and absolute control." The skis gleamed under the fluorescent lights—midnight blue top sheets streaked with silver lightning bolts, the manufacturer's logo embossed in matte chrome. He handed them to Takeshi. The weight in his hands was familiar and foreign at the same time. Like shaking hands with a past version of himself.
"For Super-G," Kenji continued, pulling down a slightly shorter pair, "these are 210s. Still stiff, but with a slightly tighter turning radius. You'll need precision and aggression."
These had a deep crimson gradient that faded to black at the tips, like fire smouldering under smoke. Carbon fibre layup showed faintly beneath the lacquer, giving them a textured shimmer.Takeshi set the Downhill skis down and took the Super-Gs. His fingers traced the sharp, finely-tuned edges. His father used to tune his skis every night before a race. "Edges clean enough to shave with," he'd say. It was one of the few memories that didn't ache.
Kenji kept going. "Giant Slalom—195s. Still stiff. Smooth carves. You'll feel the edge-to-edge power with these."These skis were dressed in an electric teal with black racing stripes down the centre, a nod to vintage European designs. The sidewalls were reinforced, angular, and precise.
Then, a final pair. "And for Slalom: 170s. You need explosiveness, rapid turns, snappy reflexes. These'll be your tightest setup." He paused. "Still stiff, but they have to be. You don't want a noodle under your feet in a race."
These looked the most aggressive—bold black with acid yellow accents slicing diagonally across the top sheet, almost like hazard tape. The tips were slightly rockered, and the tails square and snappy.Takeshi nodded slowly, taking in the weight and feel of each. They all had that same whisper: Come back. Let's go.
But his heart still clenched at the thought of falling again. Not physically—but emotionally. He hadn't skied since…since that night the world caved in.
Kenji seemed to sense it. "One more set," he said, a little lighter. "For PE and messing around—these are your all-mountains. Good for the piste, back country, even a little park if you're feeling brave."He handed Takeshi a set with twin tips, medium flex, and a flash of playful energy. The top sheet was a chaotic mix of turquoise and orange graffiti-style patterns, the base hot pink with stylized white arrows."Fun skis. No pressure."
That made Takeshi crack a faint smile. "I remember doing nose butters with something like these."
"There it is," Kenji said with a grin.
"Poles too," he added, grabbing two sets from a nearby bin. He handed over a straight carbon fibre racing pair—matte black with a hint of graphite shimmer, shaped for aerodynamics, designed to slice through air. "For competition," he said.Then another pair—aluminium shafts with a brushed gunmetal finish, ergonomic cork grips, and adjustable lengths. "And these are for your rec set. Save your wrists some grief when you're just cruising."
Boots came next. Kenji brought out a pair of matte black 130-flex boots with a BOA closure system that looked like something out of a tech lab. The heel cup was lined with thermoformable padding, and subtle silver graphics wrapped around the outer shell in clean, modern lines.
"These'll serve across all five sets of skis," Kenji explained, kneeling to help him try one on. "High flex for performance. BOA system means you can get in and out fast, adjust mid-run, and still get consistent tightness."
Takeshi slipped his foot in and rotated the dial. The boot hugged his foot and ankle like it was made for him.
"You've got a medium-width foot, so this boot's last is around 100 mm—the perfect balance of performance and comfort," Kenji added. "They'll respond when you ask. Won't fight you."
It felt…right. Takeshi exhaled slowly. Not quite peace, but something close.
Bindings were next—adjustable, responsive, safety-calibrated for his height and weight. The heels clicked into place with a crisp snap, the brushed steel toe pieces shining like miniature engines. Kenji double-checked DIN settings, nodding to himself as he clicked the boots in.
For clothing, Kenji led him to the racks. "Racing kit next."
He handed Takeshi a sleek black speed suit—minimal, aerodynamic, with silver compression panels tracing the contours of his muscles and breathable seams under the arms and behind the knees. "Designed for drag reduction. You'll wear this during comp runs. Helmet, too—black shell, EPS liner, precision fit. Lightweight but strong."
He tried it on. It was snug, sculpted—but not restricting. Like armour.
Then came the everyday wear. "You'll want something steezy for rec skiing," Kenji said, grinning as he held up a looser-fitting jacket in navy and gray with a diagonal colour block, a side-arm ski pass pocket, big waterproof zips, and ventilation under the arms. "Park rat chic."
Takeshi chuckled quietly. "It's got some swagger."He didn't expect to hear words like steezy and park rat used by a man in his late 30s, which he found quite amusing.
Kenji tossed him matching baggy trousers—charcoal gray with reinforced knees, built-in gaiters, and inner cuffs printed with jagged mountain silhouettes. "These'll keep you warm and dry, but still let you move."
Base layers came next—graphite gray thermals with wicking channels down the back and sleeves, soft to the touch but cool against the skin. Then a charcoal fleece with a red zip for mid-layer warmth, and finally the shell—a storm-blue outer jacket with taped seams and minimalist branding.
"Layers are key," Kenji said. "You don't want to overheat on the lifts or freeze mid-run."
For gloves, they picked a pair with articulated fingers and reinforced leather palms—stormproof, dexterous, built for grip on poles or rail grabs.
Then goggles—antifog, anti-scratch, wide-view lenses, interchangeable tints for different light conditions. Takeshi chose a clear finish, like the part of him he still wasn't ready to show.
Kenji grabbed a pair of sunglasses as well—sleek and sport-cut, with red-orange mirrored lenses. "For spring sun and off-slope days," he said, then added with a grin, "You can ski in 'em too, on bluebird days. Just don't take 'em racing—goggles seal better at speed."
Finally, he handed Takeshi a snood—soft fleece-lined, with enough stretch to cover neck and chin or pull up over his mouth when needed. Deep slate gray with a subtle snowflake pattern stitched near the hem. "Better than a scarf when the wind cuts sideways," Kenji said.
When it was all packed, the bags felt heavy. Not just from the gear—but from everything it meant.
Kenji swiped the card. Takeshi stared at the counter, uncertainty in his gut.
He blinked, feeling a sudden warmth rise in his chest. It wasn't just the offer—it was the weight behind it, the quiet trust Kenji placed in him. He looked up, meeting Kenji's steady gaze, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them."You don't have to be all the way ready yet. Just…be willing to take one step."
Takeshi nodded slowly. His hand tightened around the bag handles.
As they stepped outside, the air felt a little different. Sharper. Cleaner. The world hadn't changed—but he had.
Tomorrow, the slope awaited.
And this time, maybe…he wouldn't be alone.