It had been four years since Mirai Saito collapsed on the court.
Four summers since the prefectural semifinals ended in silence instead of celebration. Since the ball dropped mid-serve and the sun refused to dim for her.
Aoi Minami hadn't picked up a racket since.
She had transferred schools quietly halfway through her second year of junior high. No farewell match. No announcement. The Kaimei tennis team held a moment of silence the following season. Then the world moved on.
Aoi didn't.
She carried Mirai's ghost in the pages of her sketchbook.
Now sixteen, she sat on the third floor of the art building at her new high school, watching clouds move across the glass windows. Her graphite pencil danced automatically across the page, tracing a figure in mid-serve, eyes closed, mouth open in a laugh she could no longer hear.
Her classmates chattered around her—clubs, exams, new crushes—but she heard none of it. She rarely spoke unless spoken to. Teachers said she was gifted in visual arts, but "withdrawn." Her counselor suggested she join a club. Maybe reconnect with old teammates. "It might help," they said.
She ignored them.
Her sketchbook was her only court now.
At home, her room was a quiet museum. On the desk: a cup of pencils and a single photograph of her and Mirai from sixth grade—grinning, arms slung around each other, tournament medals tangled together like vines. The racket was still in her closet, untouched. Wrapped in an old towel, buried under outgrown uniforms and the sweatshirt Mirai had loaned her once and never asked back.
She never opened the journal again.
Some days, she drew the same image over and over: a hand reaching out. Some days, it was Mirai's. Other days, she wasn't sure.
The school held a spring festival that year. Students raced around hanging banners and organizing performances. Aoi volunteered to paint stage backdrops—not because she wanted to, but because the teacher had asked, and saying no felt harder than saying yes.
She stayed late in the art room alone, brush in hand, painting a garden scene in slow, methodical strokes. Her earphones blocked out the noise. Just soft piano tracks and the scrape of paint on canvas.
Her world had narrowed.
No matches. No rivalries. No chants or cheers.
Just linework.
Shadows.
Memory.
And one name that still lived in the corner of every unfinished page: Mirai.