The team hotel hallway was quiet, the only sound the hum of the AC. Lin Mo walked slowly, his sneakers scuffing the carpet, the weight of the night pressing on his shoulders.
He'd skipped the post-game presser, couldn't face the questions: "Is this the end?" "What went wrong?" He just wanted to be alone.
When he unlocked his room, the green light from the window was still there, slanting across the floor—sharp, unforgiving. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes. The left one, with its ragged scratch, looked almost sad.
A knock. He tensed, then sighed. "Come in."
Davis stood in the doorway, holding a paper bag. "Got this from the front desk. For you."
Lin Mo took it, opening it slowly. Inside was a sewing kit—needles, spools of thread in purple and gold, a small pair of scissors—and a note, in Joe's messy handwriting:
*"Xiao Mo,
Scars are just stories the fabric tells. The scratch on your shoe? It's not a mistake. It's where you learned to slow down.
Last year, you ran from it. This year, you'll stitch over it.
Slow. Steady. Let the thread hold.
— Joe"*
Under the note was a scrap of fabric, the same as the one with "韧" embroidered on it, but this one had a new stitch: a tiny wolf, sewn in green thread, its snout poked by a needle.
Lin Mo laughed, sudden and wet. Davis leaned against the doorframe, grinning. "Joe's niece said he started that before he passed. 'For when Xiao Mo needs a reminder.'"
Lin Mo picked up a needle, threading it with gold thread. He held up his shoe, the scratch gaping. Then, slowly, carefully, he began to stitch—over the scratch, back and forth, the thread weaving through the fabric, binding the old wound to something new.
Outside, he heard voices: LeBron, yelling about film study at 8 a.m., and someone—maybe Russell—groaning, "Too early, man."
Lin Mo smiled, tying off the thread. The stitch wasn't perfect—crooked, a little loose—but it held.
He set the shoe down, the gold thread catching the dim light. The green light from the window still glowed, but it didn't burn anymore.
Tomorrow, they'd lose if they played like tonight. But tomorrow, they wouldn't.
Lin Mo picked up the thimble, sliding it onto his finger. It fit, dents and all.
Some stitches, he thought, just need a little push.