The alarm rang out — dry, steady, slicing through the stillness of dawn.
Hashina opened his eyes and hurried to shut it off.
The small room was filled with the pale gray light of morning, seeping through the window frame.
Tomorrow. Six a.m. Come back here if you want to change.
He still remembered those words — like a fragile thread trying to pull him out of the darkness, toward a place called hope.
A place where he might gather the broken pieces of his youth again.
On the wooden shelf, the old boxing gloves still hung — as if his long-lost determination had stayed behind, waiting to be awakened.
His wife and child were still asleep. He looked at them for a long time — as if he had forgotten what it felt like to care.
He brushed a strand of hair from his wife's face. Warmth spread through his fingertips — simple, gentle, but enough to thaw a heart that had gone cold.
He stepped out of the room. Morning light poured through the doorway, casting streaks of gray across the floor.
Today is different.
Down the stairs, the hallway was still dark — but it no longer had the weight to trap his heart.
Through the dim light, he could still see the old faded sign between weathered buildings — a familiar mark, now strangely alive.
He pushed the door open.
Silence.
Only the scent of old leather and chalk dust lingered in the air.
But in his mind, the echoes of punches and cheers still rang clear — vivid, alive, unforgotten.
"You're here."
The rough, familiar voice broke the silence.
Hashina looked up. It was him — the same broad shoulders, the same sharp eyes that had once followed his every move.
Hashina didn't speak, only nodded slightly.
Kenji's gaze stayed on him, tracing the lines of his face — as if searching for something new.
Maybe it was the look of a river finding its way home, or a flicker of flame, fragile yet unwilling to die.
Kenji turned toward the ring."Follow me. You need to remember how it feels."
Hashina stepped onto the mat. The flickering light reflected half his face — half shadow, half dawn.
In that moment, even the light seemed uncertain: to leave, or to stay — like him, caught between belief and doubt.
He stood in the center of the ring.
Strange, yet familiar.
The echoes of drums and cheers still lived inside him — as if it were only yesterday. This was the place where he learned not only how to win, but how to fall.
The light above fell straight onto his face — burning away the last haze in his eyes.
Kenji lifted the gloves.
"Put them on. Let's train."
Hashina slid his hands in. The old leather was stiff and dry, still carrying the scent of sweat and dust. When the straps tightened around his wrists, that old weight returned — real, heavy, full of memory.
Kenji wore the focus mitts, their surface worn thin by time."I'll count. One for left, two for right. I'll move — feel the space. Ready?"
Hashina nodded.
He drew in a deep breath.
Feet shoulder-width apart, left foot forward, right foot angled back, heel light on the ground. Low stance. Left hand guards the chin, elbow tucked tight; right hand near the cheek — ready.
Even after all these years, his body still remembered.
"Ready."
Hashina clenched his fists, tendons tight, breath steady.
"One!"
He aimed for the mitt.
Twisted his hips, extended his arm, drove his weight forward.
Thump.
The sound echoed through the narrow space — short, solid, like a heartbeat coming back to life.
The skin on his knuckles burned, but he didn't stop.
Kenji watched silently.
"Keep going."
The greatest failure is when we stop. Keep going. Don't give up, my son.
Those words stirred something in him. He had been running for too long.
For years, his world had been four walls.
No work.
No drive.
No feeling.
Apathy — it had drained him, piece by piece, until only a hollow shell remained.
Now, in the rhythm of his breath and the crack of his punches, something began to move again. A flame — faint but real — flickered alive inside his chest.
"Two!"
He twisted, driving harder.
THUMP.
The sound was dry, sharp — like striking the surface of reality itself.
"Again!"
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Each punch was a confession.
Each sound — heavy, raw — was a heartbeat fighting its way back.
He wasn't striking the mitts anymore; he was striking the years that had broken him.
His eyes burned bright — not for the old glory, but for the man standing here now.
The echoes grew louder, faster.No longer the sound of leather meeting leather — but of life itself, returning.
Finally, Kenji lowered the mitts.
Hashina stood still.
Breathing hard, sweat dripping onto the floor.
Silence filled the room.
And in that silence — for the first time in years — Hashina heard the voice of himself.