Chapter 50: Letters Beyond the Fence

The old field was behind them now.

The locker room keys had been returned. Jerseys folded into plastic bins that would probably sit forgotten in a storage closet. Coach Inoue didn't show up that morning. Neither did the principal. Maybe they thought goodbyes had already been said. Maybe they didn't know how to say them again.

Haruto stood alone on the hill just beyond the school.

From there, the rooftops of the village looked like a painting—flat and quiet, with telephone wires slicing the sky, and the distant hum of early summer cicadas. The field wasn't visible anymore. That part was done.

His fingers traced the edge of the envelope again. The one stamped in deep, blue ink:

> Meiwa High School – Summer Training Camp Invitation

"Scouts Will Be Watching."

It was still hard to believe it wasn't a mistake.

He looked down at the details printed inside: dates, times, rules. A list of basic gear to bring. And in bold, at the bottom:

> "This is not a recruitment letter. This is a trial."

A trial.

He remembered Coach Inoue's words—"At least one of you is going far."

But that wasn't a promise.

It was pressure.

Haruto sighed and looked up at the morning sky.

Reina had sent him a text last night. Just three words:

> "Don't forget us."

Not good luck. Not I'll miss you. Just that.

He wouldn't. He couldn't.

The Miracle Nine might've ended with a dropped fly ball, a shoulder injury, and a crumbling budget—but it was real. Every scraped knee, every fight, every hug after a game, every time Reina yelled at him to ice his elbow. It all happened. And it mattered.

He made his way down the hill.

At the station, Sōta was already waiting.

He leaned against the bench, backpack slung low, hair messy as usual. His cleats dangled from a strap on the side.

"You didn't bring a lunch?" Haruto asked.

Sōta shrugged. "Didn't feel like eating."

Haruto sat beside him. For a while, they didn't talk.

Only when the station speaker crackled and the next train's arrival was announced did Sōta finally say something.

"You know they're going to crush us, right?"

Haruto smiled faintly. "Probably."

"I'm not good enough for Meiwa."

"You said the same thing before your first game."

"And I was right then, too."

They both laughed, tired and honest.

The train arrived. They boarded.

Inside, it was mostly empty. Just a few students in uniforms, an old man reading the newspaper, and a woman with a sleeping baby.

Haruto sat by the window. The fields began to blur past.

Rice paddies. Shrines. Small bridges. Then concrete. Then tall buildings.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the folded team photo Reina had given him. Their last game—dust in the air, sun behind them, mismatched uniforms and all.

Jun with his eyes closed.

Ayumu flashing a peace sign.

Takeshi mid-blink.

Sōta looking like he didn't want to be there.

And Reina, not even in the photo, because she was the one who took it.

"I didn't say goodbye properly," Haruto murmured.

Sōta glanced at the photo.

"She knows. We all do."

The train rattled on.

When they arrived at Meiwa, it felt like a different country.

The stadium loomed—turf that glowed unnaturally green, tall wire fences wrapped in branded padding, multiple bullpens, full-time staff milling about with clipboards and walkie-talkies.

Haruto adjusted his bag and followed the signs to registration.

There were dozens of boys already lined up—clean uniforms, branded gear, shiny cleats.

Haruto looked down at his stitched-up glove and re-laced sneakers.

One of the staff pointed them to their field assignment.

As they walked, Haruto noticed a tall figure standing near the first baseline, watching the arrivals. Black jacket. Arm folded.

She didn't speak to anyone.

Didn't smile.

Just observed.

He recognized her.

Rin Katsuragi.

The Meiwa scout.

She glanced at her tablet, then at Haruto.

Their eyes met briefly.

Then she looked away.

Sōta elbowed him. "Guess she's not impressed."

"Yet," Haruto said.

The fields began to fill. Whistles blew. Coaches barked instructions. Players ran timed drills, threw warm-up pitches, swung bats into the wind.

Haruto found his name on the rotation list.

Bullpen: Slot 3.

He sat on the bench, breathing slowly. Watching the others.

There were machines tracking pitch speed. Velocity screens. Swing analytics. Something about spin rate and pitch break radius.

He didn't understand half of it.

He just knew how to throw.

The first two pitchers finished.

Then came his name:

> "Fujiwara Haruto. Slot 3."

He walked up to the mound. Cleared the dirt under his cleats. Adjusted his stance.

The catcher signaled.

Fastball.

Haruto nodded.

One breath.

One step.

And he let it go.

CRACK.

Not the bat. The glove.

There was a short silence.

The machine beeped.

137 km/h.

A few heads turned.

Haruto's second pitch curved. His shoulder twitched painfully, but he didn't stop.

Third pitch. A little wild.

Fourth, sharper.

He finished the bullpen session without looking toward the stands.

But he felt it.

Eyes on him.

Not his teammates this time. Not Coach Inoue. Not Reina or the villagers.

These were strangers.

Scouts.

Decision-makers.

The kind of people who put papers in envelopes and call it fate.

When he walked off the mound, Sōta was waiting.

"You held back on the curve," he said.

"My shoulder's still not perfect."

"Still looked fast to me."

Haruto sat down, heart pounding.

The field lights switched on. Evening had come early.

Someone handed him a towel. Another boy asked where he was from.

"Yamabiko," Haruto replied.

The boy frowned. "That countryside team?"

Haruto nodded.

"They said you guys were a joke."

Haruto didn't respond.

Because if that was a joke… then this, right now, standing on a real field under real lights… this had to be the punchline.

And he was still here.

Still writing it.

The chapter wasn't closed.

Just turned.

He looked out toward the field again, and whispered—not to anyone else, but to the dream that hadn't died:

"I'm not done yet."

And the game, somewhere in the distant future, waited.

—

End of Middle School Arc.