The kit bag was still where he'd left it.
By the wall.
Covered in soft dust now.
Tucked behind the folded laundry like a secret he didn't want to remember owning.
He'd walked past it for twenty-one days.
Each time, thinking:
Not today.
Today was different.
Not because of anything huge.
No call from home.
No dream.
No headline.
Just a morning where the rain had stopped, and the silence inside the room had grown too still to ignore.
Aarav sat cross-legged on the floor, the bag in front of him.
Still zipped.
Still whole.
Like a mouth waiting to speak.
He touched the handle.
Flinched.
The fabric was cold.
Not temperature cold—
Memory cold.
He unzipped it slowly.
The sound sliced through the room like a sharp inhale.
Inside: his past. Folded. Unmoving. But alive.
The first thing he pulled out was the jersey.
Dark blue.
No longer as crisp.
But still clean.
"KAPOOR" across the back.
He stared at the letters.
He used to love that name.
Used to feel it meant something.
Now it felt like borrowed glory.
He held it up.
Smelled it.
Still faintly held that scent — of sweat, stadium turf, detergent from the team laundry.
His throat tightened.
He pressed the jersey to his chest.
Not for comfort.
For proof.
You were there, it whispered.
You were real.
Next: the gloves.
Still wrapped together.
Still curled slightly from the last time he'd taken them off.
He slid his hands into them.
Too tight now.
Or maybe his hands had changed.
He flexed his fingers.
Memories poured in like light through a shattered window:
—The semifinal.
—The catch he dropped.
—The screaming coach.
—The autograph on a kid's notebook.
—His mother in the stands.
—His father saying, "You're not smiling in the interviews. Smile more."
—
He yanked the gloves off.
Dropped them on the floor.
The bat was next.
Wrapped in the towel his mother had handed him at the airport.
She hadn't cried that day.
He had.
Silently.
He remembered gripping the towel so tightly that it tore.
He unwrapped it now with careful fingers.
Wood.
Weight.
A scar near the toe — from the shot he'd edged onto the ground at 99.
He touched that mark gently.
His whole identity had once lived inside that piece of wood.
He stood up.
Held it like he used to.
Like it was alive.
Stepped into imaginary stance.
Closed his eyes.
He was back in Delhi.
The roar of the crowd.
The click of cameras.
The pressure boiling beneath his skin.
The ball coming in fast.
He swung.
In his mind —
He missed.
His eyes snapped open.
He was back in Tokyo.
In a quiet apartment.
Holding a bat.
Swinging at nothing.
He sat down.
Placed the bat back in the towel.
Didn't wrap it this time.
Let it breathe.
That afternoon, he walked outside.
Without headphones.
Without hoodie.
Just himself.
He passed the vending machine, ignored the coffee.
Walked to the batting cage.
Didn't go in.
Just stood at the fence and watched.
A boy — maybe twelve — missing every ball.
And laughing.
No coach yelling.
No crowd groaning.
Just joy.
Unapologetic. Uncomplicated.
Aarav closed his eyes and whispered:
"I forgot it could be like that."
That night, there was a knock.
Hana.
Same calm face.
She held a bento.
He shook his head.
"I'm not hungry."
"I know," she said.
"But it's not for eating."
She handed it over anyway.
He opened it slowly.
Inside:
Just rice.
Plain. White. Simple.
No garnish.
No tofu.
No decoration.
Just space.
He looked at her.
She didn't explain.
Didn't need to.
Some ghosts didn't need feeding.
Just acknowledging.
Later, he placed the rice box on the table beside the bat.
Side by side.
Two things he used to live for.
And now… didn't know how to carry.
But they were there.
And so was he.