The first time Aarav saw him, the man was lining up baseballs like chess pieces.
No expression.
No wasted movement.
Just quiet efficiency — arms folded, cap low, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
The kids called him "Sensei," but never loudly.
Their posture changed when he walked by.
Even the vending machine seemed to lower its volume.
Aarav was only there to return Hana's school camera.
She had left it in his apartment after showing him the photos from the festival — her art, her classmates, her quiet life behind a lens.
He didn't plan to stay long.
But something about the way the coach moved—
something pulled him in.
He lingered at the fence.
Watched the drills.
Nothing flashy.
Just basics.
Throws.
Catches.
Footwork.
But the intensity—
it lived in the silence.
One boy dropped a ball.
The coach didn't yell.
Didn't scold.
Just walked over, picked up the ball, placed it back in the boy's hand.
Then walked away.
No smile.
No praise.
But the boy stood straighter afterward.
"You stayed longer than I expected."
Aarav turned.
Hana.
She stood beside him, holding two cans of tea.
"Didn't know your camera was bait," he said.
She smirked.
"It wasn't."
They stood together, eyes on the field.
"That's the coach?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Yoshida-sensei. He doesn't smile. But he sees everything."
"Sounds familiar."
She glanced at him.
"You thinking of someone?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Yoshida turned.
His eyes swept the fence — paused briefly on Aarav.
A beat too long.
Then he looked away.
Later, when practice ended, the boys jogged to the shed.
Laughter returned.
Yoshida remained, wiping down bats.
Aarav hesitated.
Then walked over.
Close enough to be seen.
Not close enough to speak.
The coach didn't look up.
But after a moment, he said—
"You held the bat wrong."
Aarav blinked.
"When?"
"Yesterday. Cage 4."
"You saw?"
"I watch everyone who steps in."
Aarav nodded slowly.
Felt his chest tighten.
He didn't know if it was shame or respect.
"Wrist too stiff," Yoshida added.
"No weight transfer. You're swinging like someone who forgot their body."
"I did."
Now the coach looked up.
Eyes unreadable.
"You played before?"
"Yes."
"Still do?"
Aarav paused.
Then:
"I'm not sure."
Yoshida tossed a ball to him.
Casual.
Accurate.
Aarav caught it.
Felt the seam in his palm.
Yoshida pointed toward the net.
"No pressure. Just swing."
Aarav stared at the net.
Then at the coach.
Then back at the ball.
And stepped forward.
He didn't wear gloves.
Didn't warm up.
Just stood in position.
Yoshida loaded the machine.
No comment.
No encouragement.
Just the click.
Ball one.
Aarav swung.
Too early.
Ball two.
He adjusted his feet.
Let it go.
Ball three.
He hit it.
Straight.
Clean.
Not powerful — but centered.
The machine stopped.
Yoshida walked over.
Picked up the ball from behind the net.
Looked at it.
Then at Aarav.
Still no smile.
But something settled between them.
Like the pause between beats.
Like understanding.
"You're not from here," Yoshida said.
"No."
"You're not staying long."
"Maybe."
"You still have rhythm."
Aarav looked down at the bat in his hands.
"I forgot it for a while."
"You didn't forget," the coach replied.
"You just stopped listening."
Aarav handed the bat back.
"Thanks."
Yoshida nodded once.
Then turned.
Didn't offer him a spot.
Didn't ask for a name.
But just before walking away, he said:
"Cage is open after five.
If you're listening again."
Aarav stood alone in the fading light.
The net in front of him.
The bat still warm in his hand.
And for the first time,
he didn't feel like proving anything.
Just… showing up.
That night, he told Hana what the coach said.
Word for word.
She listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Then asked—
"Will you go back?"
Aarav thought about it.
Not the swing.
Not the pitch.
But the silence between the two.
And smiled.
"Maybe."
He opened his journal.
Wrote just one thing:
Some teachers don't clap.
But their silence sounds like trust.