THUMP.
The sound of a punch echoed through the still air of the early morning.
A dim fluorescent light spilled down on the ring, mixing with Kenji's sharp commands:
"One. Two."
For the past few days, Hashina had been coming back here.Bit by bit. Step by step.
The fog that once clouded his mind was slowly lifting, revealing an old yet strangely new path—
a quiet corner of the gym where he could once again meet the version of himself he had lost.
Step by step.
Left, right. Forward, back.
Each move carried the faint scrape of rubber soles on the floor—subtle, steady, deliberate.
At first, his body moved awkwardly, sluggishly—like a man stumbling through the symphony of his own forgotten rhythm. But slowly, something began to return—his breath, his stance, the weight behind each punch.
Together, they began to form a melody—a long-lost song that had once belonged to him.
Sweat soaked through his shirt, dripping down onto the mat.
Each drop marked a moment—small, but real—where he reclaimed a piece of himself.
He was no longer the man who had locked himself within four walls,
isolated, drifting through fragments of memory that refused to die.
Now, he was changing.
He was fighting—not for lost glory, but for the person standing in front of him right now.
Kenji watched from the corner, arms crossed, eyes sharp as steel.
He said nothing, only studying how far this man could go before he broke.
"One. Two!"
Hashina clenched his teeth, turned his hips, and threw a punch with everything left in his body.
THUMP.
The sound landed heavy and hollow—like a hammer striking iron, tearing through the silence.
But that punch wasn't meant for the mists.
It was meant for himself—for all the wasted days, the neglect, the despair that had slowly drained the life out of him.
Kenji lowered the pad and said quietly:
"Seems like you're getting better, little by little."
Both men stood there, panting, the smell of sweat and chalk thick in the air.
Hashina's body was exhausted, trembling.
And yet, inside, something felt lighter—as if each breath was carrying away a fragment of his sorrow.
"Remember this," he thought. "What's gone can never be brought back."
He smiled faintly.
And then, a voice—soft and distant—echoed inside his head.
"But you found yourself again, didn't you?"
A person can change—even when they're standing in the darkest corner of their life.
Nothing is eternal.
One day, even the blackest night will crack—just enough for light to break through.
So don't give up.
Fight until that day comes.
Night.
The streetlight filtered weakly through the window, painting soft gold patches on the cracked wall of their small apartment.
He sat on the familiar sofa, cigarette between his fingers.
His body still ached from the morning, but he barely noticed.
All he could feel was a strange rush of calm—the quiet thrill of knowing that he had finally found something again: himself.
His eyes wandered to the shelf across the room, where dust covered the trophies and medals that once gleamed. The gold had long since faded, eaten by time.
He closed his eyes.
Took a deep breath.
That past—the victories, the fleeting joy of being cheered by a crowd—had trapped him for too long.
"Let it go."
He opened his eyes again.
Somehow, without him noticing, his wife was standing by the window. The streetlight brushed against her face, now softer, older—The glow of youth long gone.
She didn't look at him when she spoke. Her voice was calm, almost fragile, carrying a weight he could feel in the air:
"You know... the rent's two months late again.
And my parents... they're sick. It's getting worse.
I'm not trying to pressure you, but... maybe you could look for something? Anything. Even a small job."
For a brief moment, she looked exactly like she did years ago—the same gentle eyes that once stood by him after his first loss,
when the world mocked him, and she stayed.
But time had changed those eyes.
There was no longer hope in them—only fatigue.
"Do you really think you can come back?"
The question wasn't an accusation.
It was soft, almost like a whisper— a sound that cut deeper than anger ever could.
It brushed against the quiet space where his dreams and his reality collided and broke apart.
"I'll take our son to my parents' for a few days," she said."While I'm gone... please, just try to find a job."
Her fingers twisted slightly at the hem of her shirt. A gesture so small, yet full of silent resignation.
Hashina said nothing. He just sat there, motionless.
The fan whirred lazily above them, stirring the heavy air but changing nothing.
The ticking clock filled the silence—
each second dragging itself forward, heavy and slow—
like her weary heart.
She had once laughed and cried beside him— a man full of fire, love, and purpose.
But over the years, she had carried everything alone. While he stayed locked inside his world, chasing a dream long buried.
The weight of it all had slowly suffocated her.
And yet, she kept believing—believing that one day, he'd rise again.
But now... even that belief had begun to crack.
After a long silence, she turned and went into the bedroom, leaving Hashina alone, staring blankly at the smoke curling from his cigarette.
He sat there for a long time.
The clock ticked on, slow and relentless, like a dying heartbeat.
"A job..." he whispered, his voice hollow.
Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to stop.
The gloves, the ring, the roaring crowds—They were nothing more than fading echoes of another life.
And for a fleeting second, as his eyes met the doorway where his wife had stood, his heart stopped.
That face—
once radiant, once filled with pride—
was now shadowed with despair.
The light in her eyes, the one that had followed him through every win and loss, was gone.
And in that quiet, terrible realization,Hashina understood— He was the one who made that light fade.
Perhaps time had taken everything from him....
even her heart.