He knew they were still there.
Tucked beneath the duffel.
Wrapped in an old practice shirt.
Unwashed.
Untouched.
The last piece of Delhi he hadn't dared to face.
His shoes.
They weren't just any shoes.
They were those shoes.
The ones he wore in the final match.
The ones with red dust still clinging to the sole.
The ones that knew the exact angle of his fall.
He pulled them out that morning.
Not because he was ready.
Not because he wanted to relive it.
But because… it was time.
The silence in the room agreed with him.
The laces were stiff.
The tongue folded inward like a tired throat.
The logo faded.
But they still fit.
Like memory.
Like regret.
Like something that hadn't left — just waited.
He didn't walk to the cage immediately.
He wore them inside first.
Took five steps.
Paused.
No collapse.
No flashback.
Just footsteps on new floorboards.
Then he stepped outside.
The Tokyo pavement felt different beneath them.
Less familiar.
Less soft.
But solid.
Unjudging.
He passed the vending machine.
Didn't stop.
Passed the bench where Hana once sat sketching.
Nodded at it.
Kept walking.
At the cage, Coach Yoshida was already setting up.
He looked at Aarav's shoes once.
Just once.
Didn't comment.
But Aarav saw it —
the slight lift of an eyebrow.
He stepped into the cage.
Inserted a coin.
No fanfare.
No warmup.
Just breath.
And weight.
And memory.
First pitch —
he didn't swing.
Second —
he did.
Connected.
A low line drive.
Nothing pretty.
But contact.
He smiled.
Not because of the hit.
Because of the shoes.
They didn't feel cursed anymore.
They just felt like… shoes.
He kept going.
Ten pitches.
Five hits.
Two foul balls.
Three misses.
Balanced.
Like him.
After the last pitch, he didn't leave the cage.
Just stood there.
Bat down.
Shoes planted.
And whispered—
"Same shoes.
Different ground."
Coach Yoshida walked over.
Still no smile.
But his voice had a quiet softness.
"You didn't flinch."
Aarav looked down.
"Not this time."
The coach nodded.
"Then keep them on."
Hana met him outside later.
She saw the shoes.
Didn't ask.
Just said:
"They look like they remember things."
"They do," he said.
"But they're learning new ground now."
They walked together.
The sun low.
Their shadows long.
He didn't feel heavy anymore.
The shoes didn't squeak.
Didn't blister.
They just carried him forward.
That night, he placed the shoes beside the bed.
Not hidden.
Not wrapped.
Just… there.
Present.
Forgiven.
In his journal, he wrote:
I thought wearing them would break me.
Turns out, I had already outgrown the fear — not the fit.
Then added:
Old shoes don't always mean old wounds.
Sometimes they just mean you're still walking.