Spring comes late this year.
The track glows faintly in the morning light, the red lanes still wet from yesterday's rain. The air smells like rubber, dew, and something faintly metallic — the scent of effort.
A few runners are already warming up, their laughter soft but distant, like echoes from a world Ren Hayama no longer belongs to.
He adjusts the strap of the medical kit on his shoulder and walks along the outer lane. His steps are quiet, careful not to disturb the rhythm of the morning. The others run. He watches. It's been that way for almost 3 years.
"Morning, Hayama."
Coach Minobe's voice breaks the silence.
Ren nods back, polite as always. The coach's whistle glints at his neck, the same one Ren once ran towards — before he started running from it instead.
"Timing checks again today," Minobe says.
"Got it."
Ren crouches near the first lane, setting down the cones, stopwatch, and spare towels. He's efficient, methodical. The other students barely notice him; they're used to him being there — the quiet helper, the guy who never runs but always stays until the end.
Still, the routine feels safe. Predictable.
The whistle shrieks, and the sound vibrates through him like muscle memory trying to wake. His chest tightens. It's instinct, not longing — at least, that's what he tells himself.
"Ready… set—!"
The runners burst forward, shoes pounding the track.
Ren's eyes follow the baton as it passes between hands. Good form. Tight grip. Controlled breathing. Everything he used to chase.
He counts the beats under his breath.
One. Two. Three. Four.
A small mistake almost happens — a hesitation at the exchange zone.
Before he realizes it, Ren's voice cuts through the air:
"Stick!"
The word echoes, sharp and commanding.
The runner reacts instantly, hand snapping backward, baton caught clean.
Smooth transition. Perfect recovery.
Silence follows. For a moment, even the coach blinks in surprise.
Ren blinks too. The word had left him before he could stop it — like his body still remembered what his heart wanted to forget.
Coach Minobe only smiles faintly, whistle between his teeth. He doesn't say anything.
The wind drifts across the lanes again.
Ren exhales. His pulse slows.
He turns back to packing the cones, pretending nothing happened, but his hands tremble just enough that he notices. His palms are damp — not from the morning chill, but from the echo of adrenaline.
When practice ends, the runners gather in groups, talking and laughing.
Ren stays behind, gathering the towels and bottles left behind.
He doesn't hate them. He doesn't envy them.
He just doesn't know how to stand among them anymore.
"Good work, Hayama," Coach Minobe says as he passes. "Same time tomorrow."
Ren nods again. The coach walks away, hands in pockets.
Minobe knows — of course he does. He was there the day Ren fell, the day the baton slipped from his hand during the regional qualifier. The day everything changed.
But he never brings it up. He never pushes.
It's as if he's waiting for Ren to start running again on his own.
Ren's gaze drifts across the field.
The empty lanes shimmer under the sun. The flags at the far end sway gently, each gust of wind just strong enough to remind him that time is still moving.
He doesn't move. Not yet.
Only when everyone's gone does he take off his jacket and walk to lane three.
He stands there, motionless, as if measuring distance with his eyes.
The rubber still looks the same — burnt red, speckled with light.
He kneels, presses his palm against it.
Cold. Solid. Real.
"Still here," he mutters.
He picks up the baton resting beside the crate, feels the weight settle into his hand. He doesn't realize how long he's been holding his breath until he lets it go.
For a second, the wind picks up — soft, passing through his hair, across the field, carrying the faint laughter of those already gone home.
He almost smiles.
Then he sets the baton down and walks off the track.
The sky above him is pale blue — the color of something about to change but not yet ready.
The wind quiets. The world holds its breath.
And Ren Hayama, the boy who once ran like the wind, keeps walking.