đź“– Chapter 1: The Weight Beneath the Water
Saint Heriyama threw himself into the lake.
He didn't float up. The world did.
The water swallowed him whole, but spit him out with shaking lungs and scraped knees.
Soaking wet and coughing blood, he stumbled into a bar where the lights flickered like a bad memory.
There, an old man sat at the end of the counter. His face—too much like his grandfather's—stared straight through him.
Without a word, the man handed him a piece of paper.
"Baseball Coach Wanted."
Saint didn't laugh.
He didn't cry.
He simply took the paper and left.
Later, he'd wake up outside the bar, bruises along his ribs, a cigarette between his lips, and the flyer clenched in his fist like it had been there since he was born.
"As long as you're breathing… there's time to change direction."
The voice of his grandfather.
Still echoing somewhere under all the smoke.
đź“– Chapter 2: The Room Without a Ceiling
His apartment wasn't a home.
It was a box with walls that used to be white.
There was no bed, only the hard floor.
A broken mug. A flickering bulb. The constant drip of a ceiling leak like a ticking clock.
Saint sat with his back against the wall, a cigarette trembling between his fingers.
The flyer lay next to him.
Wrinkled. Faded. Too real to ignore, too absurd to believe.
He glanced at the cracked mirror near the sink and saw a stranger.
The same face… only less alive.
In a flash, he remembered being eleven.
A baseball. A home run. His grandfather's clapping hands.
Now, there were no crowds. No cheers. No second chances.
"What happens tomorrow?" he muttered.
No one answered. Not even the walls.
đź“– Chapter 3: But There Are Routes
He shaved. Cut his face doing it.
Put on the only dress shirt he had, creased from years of silence.
And walked to the school field where the flyer led him.
The interviewer was old.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just tired of people lying.
"How did you find the posting?"
"That job hasn't been advertised in years."
Saint looked at him with empty eyes.
"I don't know. I just… showed up."
"It was either this… or death."
The interviewer looked him up and down.
"I know it's not easy," he said.
"But there are routes."
He handed Saint a ball.
"Show me something."
đź“– Chapter 4: Fire on Contact
Saint stepped onto the field.
Every inch of grass reminded him of when he was younger—when things weren't easy, but they still made sense.
He stood at home plate.
Swing.
Miss.
Swing.
Crack.
The bat made contact.
The sound echoed.
Like something catching fire in his chest.
"That… that looked like the damn world stopped," the interviewer whispered.
Saint didn't smile.
He saw something else:
Himself, younger.
Alone.
Practicing until his fingers bled.
His grandfather never stepped in.
But he always watched.
đź“– Chapter 5: My Knuckles Also Teach
He didn't get a confirmation.
But he came back the next day.
And the next.
Saint sat on the dugout bench. Alone.
The field was silent again.
Until… he saw himself.
Not his reflection—his failure.
He lit a cigarette. Stared at the lines in the dirt.
Then, without warning, he walked into town.
Used what little money he had to buy chalk, gloves, paint.
No one asked him to.
He didn't know if he'd be hired.
Didn't know if students would come.
But as he painted the baselines, he muttered under his breath:
"Maybe I was preparing…
Or maybe I was just tired of not moving at all."
đź“– Chapter 6: No One Knows What Happens Tomorrow
Rain hit the roof like soft punches.
Saint sat in his apartment.
His face cut from shaving. His legs sore from working alone.
He stood in front of the mirror.
Looked at the face he had ruined years ago.
Then came a knock.
The interviewer again.
"We considered putting you in as a gym teacher."
Saint replied instantly:
"No."
"There aren't many kids interested in baseball. You might be wasting your time."
Saint didn't flinch.
"Let me talk to them. Just once."
At the school assembly, he gave his first and last speech.
"I won't promise you wins.
I won't promise you trophies.
I'm not here to teach you to succeed.
I'm here because I forgot what it meant to feel alive.
And swinging a bat was the only time I ever did."
No one clapped.
He walked home in the rain.
Slipped on a puddle.
Cried.
Then whispered:
"No one knows what happens tomorrow…
And maybe that's why I'm still here."