The gym was small.
Too small for dreams, people used to say.
One hoop.
Cracked walls.
A floor that creaked every time someone jumped.
But to Hiroto Mae—
It was enough.
He was seven the first time he held a basketball.
Not because someone handed it to him.
Because it rolled to his feet while he was sweeping the gym after his mother's shift.
The ball was worn. Bald in places. Uneven.
He picked it up.
It felt… right.
He shot.
The ball didn't reach the rim.
He shot again.
And again.
By the time his mother called him home, the janitor had stopped working just to watch.
"Kid," the old man said, scratching his beard. "You coming back tomorrow?"
Hiroto nodded.
Every day after that, he did.
He wasn't loud.
Wasn't flashy.
Didn't play with other kids at first.
He just shot.
Over and over.
While others chased speed or power, Hiroto chased quiet.
The sound of the net snapping.
The feeling of balance.
The moment everything aligned.
