The stars were beginning to peek out, one by one, over the clear sky of Seiryuu. On top
From the hill, Haruki walked in silence, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the lights
of the people who flickered down like fireflies. Beside him, Ami followed him with a calm smile.
The air had that mixed aroma of pine and sea salt that announced autumn in full.
"Do you remember this hill?" she asked, breaking the silence.
Haruki nodded without turning.
-Here we practiced throwing with Souta. And you took notes of every move, even
when no one asked you to.
"It wasn't out of obsession," she said. It was for fear that you would forget who you were if you ever got lost.
Haruki stopped. The past, for years a place to which he avoided returning, was no longer a wound. Era
part of the way.
"I did not forget," he answered. I just kept it until I was ready to remember it.
In the distance, the town's new gymnasium was beginning to take shape. The project "Samurai Spirit"
Basketball" had received unexpected support: educational foundations, old players, even the
mayor. What started as an idea in a notebook was now an expanding network.
In the high school classroom where Haruki taught, the atmosphere had changed. The students,
many without experience in basketball, spoke of formations, of fictitious movements, of what
which meant "playing with the heart". Some teachers even joined the workshops
weekly, looking for a spark that had been dormant in them for years.
"Today we will talk about the invisible move," Haruki said in front of the blackboard. It's the one that no one
expects,
the one that seems improvisational but is born from understanding your team better than yourself.
One student raised his hand.
-Is that like trusting with your eyes closed?
Haruki smiled.
-Exactly. It's like when Souta covered my back without me saying a word.
-Who was Souta? asked another.
-Someone who understood that basketball is not won with points. It is earned with loyalty.
The boys took notes. But more than that, they listened with real attention. Not because Haruki
was a famous former player. But because he spoke with the conviction of someone who has lived through what
he or she has experienced.
Teaches.
Riku had also returned. After summer camp, he asked for a partial transfer to
collaborate in the local institute. He and Haruki shared training, ideas, jokes. They were back
to be a team.
"Did you realize that you are Daichi now?" Riku told him one afternoon while they were cleaning balls.
-No. I just... I pass on what I learned.
-Exactly. Like him.
They both laughed. The shadow of the old coach still sheltered them, like a firm and serene presence.
One day a letter arrived in Haruki's name. He came from a small rural school in the prefecture
neighbour. A young teacher asked for guidance on how to implement the "Samurai Spirit" model.
He said that he had seen a video of Haruki's speech in Seiryuu, and that something in his words had been
awakened in him a forgotten memory of his childhood.
"It's time to grow up," Ami said, after reading the letter with him.
-Do you think we're ready?
-You are never ready for something worthwhile. You just get started.
And they started. Haruki traveled, gave talks, shared his method. But he did not talk about technique. Spoke
of connection, of stories, of that moment when a ball is more than an object: it is a bridge.
In each village he left a fragment of himself. But he also received something in return: drawings,
letters, even songs. The children baptized him as "the sensei who listens".
One Friday, upon returning from a trip, Haruki found Ami and Riku on the village court. Had
gathered the former members of the Seiryuu team for a symbolic match. Souta, now
living in Osaka, he had traveled alone for that encounter. When they looked at each other, it went without saying
nothing. Time had not erased the links. It had only strengthened them.
The match was clumsy, funny, full of mistakes. But when Haruki, with the number 11 on the
back, he scored an impossible shot from the corner of the court, everyone burst into laughter and
Applause.
"You still have it," Riku shouted.
"What I have is good muscle memory," Haruki joked, panting.
After the game, they sat on the floor, surrounded by the new players and neighbors
Curious. Someone turned on a portable projector and showed images of past tournaments. In one of the
Daichi smiled with his arms crossed.
"He's here," Ami said.
And they all nodded.
That night, as the autumn breeze swept through the dry leaves of the park, Haruki walked alone to
the hill. He sat in the same place where years ago he had doubted everything. Now there was no
Doubts. Just a luminous certainty.
He took out his new notebook and wrote:
"Chapter 16: Under the Same Heaven.
There is no greater victory than inspiring someone who does not believe in themselves.
The game continues. But now, there are many of us playing the same game."
And when I looked up, the stars were there. The same ones that had seen his passion born. Same
that now illuminated the dreams of others. Under the same sky. Always.