Aoi's POV
The morning light spills like warm paint across the courts.
I sit at the edge of Court 2, sketchbook resting on my knees, pencil gliding almost without thought. Haru and Tanaka are rallying lazily on the far side, their shoes squeaking softly against the surface. Natsuki is adjusting her camera angle from the bleachers. Even Coach Kubo, half-asleep under his umbrella with a towel draped over his head, looks at peace.
For a second, the world is quiet. The ache in my chest—soft. Bearable.
My latest sketch is of Haru mid-serve. His form is still a little too wild, but there's something electric in the way he moves—like he's always a split second from flying apart. I shade in the lines around his wrist and pause.
Mirai would've laughed at that posture. Called it "controlled chaos."
The pencil slips in my hand. I press harder, trying to focus. Don't think about her. Don't—
"Yo, Minami!"
Tanaka's voice cracks through the air like a dropped racket. I flinch, nearly tearing the page. He's waving me over, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"You gotta see this girl! She just walked on like she owns the place!"
I blink. "Who?"
"New player. Transfer. Said she was scouted from Osaka?"
My stomach tightens.
Across the courts, a figure steps into view—tall, confident, shoulders relaxed like she's done this a thousand times. Her warm-up swings are too smooth for a beginner. Too practiced. And then—she serves.
My heart skips.
The ball arcs high, twisting mid-air, then dives sharply with an unnatural curve. A twist serve.
Exactly like hers.
I'm on my feet before I realize it. The sketchbook hits the bench with a soft thud.
The girl turns, casually catching the rebounding ball. Her dark uniform isn't Kaimei's. Her shoes are brand new. But something about the way she holds her racket...
Golden racket grip. Left wrist wrapped in a faded yellow band. Just like—
No. No, it can't be.
"Minami?" Natsuki's voice is soft behind me.
I step onto the court without answering, each movement stiff and slow, like I'm underwater. The stranger notices me and stops bouncing the ball.
She grins.
"Hey. You're Aoi, right?"
Her voice is easy. Friendly.
But her eyes?
Her eyes look at me like they already know what I've lost.
Rio's POV
The stormcloud girl stares like I just served a ghost.
I recognize that look. I've seen it before—players blinking like they've seen something that shouldn't exist. I used to take pride in it, back when tennis was just wins and rankings.
But this?
This is different.
This girl—Aoi Minami—isn't blinking because I hit a clean twist serve. She's blinking because I served her shot. Mirai's shot.
"Hey," I try again, softer this time. "Sorry if that looked familiar. I was taught by someone who—"
She turns away before I finish. Her shoulders stiffen like I said something unforgivable.
So that's how it's gonna be.
Across the court, a red-haired guy with one sock pulled halfway down whistles. "Dang, she's got the same bounce Mirai used to do."
Bingo.
I look around. The rest of the team is quiet now, watching Aoi like she's a spark near a gas line. The guy with spiky brown hair—must be Haru—gives me a look that's not quite welcoming, not quite a threat.
"Name's Rio Kurosawa," I say, tossing the ball once more. "I'm from Osaka. Heard this school had a legacy worth chasing."
Coach Kubo finally groans from under his umbrella. "Please tell me you're not another prodigy with a dead mentor and emotional damage. I'm maxed out."
A few nervous laughs ripple through the team. I smile.
But my eyes are still on Aoi.
Because Haru told me the truth before I came. About her grief. Her silence. Her partner.
What he didn't say—what no one could prepare me for—is that seeing her is like looking at Mirai if she'd grown up.
And for a second, just one impossible second, I wonder—
If I've made a mistake.
Aoi's POV
I should walk away.
That serve. That grin. That name.
Kurosawa. Like Shun.
Like a bad omen carved into fresh clay.
But I stay rooted to the court, hands clenched at my sides, sketchbook abandoned on the bench behind me. Rio doesn't flinch under my stare. She just holds that damn racket like it belongs to someone else—someone I buried four summers ago.
The wind tugs at my hair. Somewhere behind me, Tanaka mutters something I can't hear. Haru says my name, low and careful.
I don't answer.
Because if I open my mouth, I'm afraid I'll scream.
So instead, I turn. Not toward the team. Not toward Haru.
Toward Court Three.
Mirai's court.
The chain-link fence rattles softly behind me, like it remembers too.
And behind me, Rio Kurosawa stands with Mirai's serve in her hands and silence on her lips.