A new week began—Monday, math class.
A slightly plump, middle-aged female teacher, somewhat round in figure, rambled at the front of the classroom. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention.
Haizaki Shogo, who hadn't bothered to focus from the start, found himself completely lost in the teacher's logic.
Bored, he turned his gaze toward the empty playground outside and the lone flag fluttering in the wind. In that moment, a familiar tune flashed through his mind.
A spark of inspiration hit. Shogo picked up his pen and began jotting down memories that kept surging through his head.
The pen danced across a blank notebook, forming words and sketches. The familiar characters and sensations seemed to drift up from the page like smoke.
"…On the swing at the edge of the playground… only butterflies resting… the chalk on the blackboard… the teacher scribbling frantically… waiting for the bell… waiting to go home… waiting for the childhood of games…"
"…That girl in the next class… why hasn't she passed by my window… snacks in her mouth… comics in her hand… childhood first love… are there spirits living in the mountains… so many days spent… staring at the sky alone…"
"…Day after day, year after year… longing for the growing-up days of childhood…"
After finishing the lyrics from his memories, Shogo stretched lazily—but his right hand brushed against a beautifully dressed girl who had appeared beside him without his noticing.
Startled, he turned to see Shimizu Rena. Instinctively, he ran his fingers through her hair, his expression soft and gentle.
Just moments ago, Shogo had been lost in memories. Now, he felt warm and calm, stripped of his usual arrogant and mischievous demeanor.
Shimizu Rena paused for a moment, stunned by the rare serenity in Shogo. When she spoke, her voice was soft and clear, yet with a faint chill underneath.
"Shogo-kun, who's the girl in the next class?"
"Ah! What? What do you mean?"
"…The girl in the next class… why hasn't she passed by my window yet…"
Uh—Shogo instantly caught a faint whiff of jealousy in her words. Smiling wryly, he explained:
"It's just the lyrics of an old folk song I heard before."
"Shogo-kun, did you write this folk song?"
For a moment, Shogo didn't know how to answer. He could only nod silently, too embarrassed to admit the truth.
Quietly, in his mind, he whispered: Teacher, I've crossed over—let me borrow this. I'll carry your legacy forward.
=======
That afternoon, after school.
Shogo walked side by side with Shimizu Rena into the basketball hall, beginning the training exercises arranged by Coach Ichiro Kudo, followed by an intra-team scrimmage.
…
Shogo jumped alongside Suzuran Karasu. He caught the ball first, gently tossing it into the net.
Swish!
The whistle signaling the end of the scrimmage sounded.
The team walked back to the locker room, joking and boasting about "who played best" and "who scored the prettiest basket."
Outside the gym, Shimizu Rena was already waiting at the door.
"Shimizu-chan, skipping fencing today?"
"No, I'm preparing for tomorrow's Cultural Festival program."
"Program? You have a program tomorrow?"
"Yes—a piano solo."
Shogo blinked. He hadn't noticed—she really was an artsy girl.
"Shogo-kun, can you sing that folk song from this morning for me?"
"Really want to hear it?"
"Yes!"
Looking into her eager eyes, Shogo felt a spark of curiosity. He cleared his throat.
A surprisingly rough, almost duck-like voice filled the air.
"…On the swing at the edge of the playground… only butterflies resting… the chalk on the blackboard… the teacher scribbling frantically… waiting for the bell… waiting to go home… waiting for the childhood of games…"
At first, his voice was a bit awkward, but gradually it grew smooth and distant, carrying a haunting nostalgia from another time and space.
After seeing her safely on the bus, Shogo waved goodbye to Rena, who returned his gesture with a warm smile.
With his basketball and bag slung over his shoulder, Shogo glanced at the neon lights flickering to life and the dark crimson clouds along the horizon, then slowly walked home.
Back home, his mother had prepared a large meal. Shogo set down his basketball and bag and began eating ravenously.
"Thanks, mom. I'll dig in!"
"Eat well, Shogo-kun!"
Walking the dog after meals had quietly become a habit. That night, the park was lively.
It was past eight p.m.—elderly people strolled in groups, while younger people jogged under the lights.
Frowning at the bustling scene, Shogo led his dog toward the basketball court, where it was quieter.
At the park court, there were fewer people, though still some young players in a 3-on-3 game. Sparse groups of elderly onlookers formed a loose circle.
Shogo circled the court, found a less crowded spot, sat down, and focused on the game. The dog obediently crouched beside him.
The players' skill levels were average—relying on physical strength rather than finesse.
Nearby, a long-haired middle-aged man muttered to the players:
"What a bunch of brutes!"
Shogo was intrigued and glanced over. The man noticed him and casually walked over, sitting beside him.
"Don't doubt it—they are brutes. If they play like this regularly, their fingers, wrists, and ankles will suffer. They don't have the privileges of professional athletes, no team doctors to help them recover from injuries."
"Eventually, when they're older, all of them will have sore backs, aching legs, and cramps."
Shogo almost laughed at the last part: Brother, are you advertising yourself?
He didn't respond, only asked politely:
"Sir, may I ask your name?"
"Mitsui Jiro. I live nearby—shouldn't be far from your home. I often see you training in the park. Honestly, your physique… is impressive."
Hearing that, Shogo's eyes sparkled as he looked at the man.
"Impressive?"
"Yes. I'm a professional orthopedist. My skill level is at least top-tier in Tokyo."