As night settled over the quiet street, Liam slid the front door open. The soft creak of wood and metal echoed faintly in the narrow entryway.
The light from the hallway washed over his face, pale and tired, as he stepped inside and bent to loosen his shoes.
"I'm home."
His voice was quiet, fading as he kicked off his shoes. A slow breath left his chest.
From the dining room came the soft rattle of chopsticks. His grandmother's voice reached him, steady and warm.
"Welcome back, Liam. Come, dinner's ready."
The scent of grilled fish and miso soup drifted through the air, mild but inviting.
Liam straightened, brushing his sleeve across his arm. "Alright, Grandma. I'm coming."
The tatami gave a dry whisper beneath his feet as he crossed the hall. The shoji door slid open, the soft scrape of wood against paper filling the brief silence before he stepped inside.
Liam settled at the low table. The air carried a gentle heat that brushed against the chill still resting on his skin.
Steam rose from the food, faint and comforting.
He lifted his bowl, the quiet tap of chopsticks marking each bite. The only sound in the room was the soft rhythm of eating.
"Grandma, could I have another bowl of rice?"
His voice came through the half-chewed words, slightly muffled, the edge of hunger still in it.
A short chuckle came from across the table. "You must be really hungry tonight."
Her slippers shifted against the tatami as she stood, the sound light and steady on her way to the kitchen.
The faint clatter of dishes followed, blending with the hum of the house.
The hiss of a can opening broke the quiet rhythm of dinner. The man leaned back, his belly pressing against the edge of the table, and took a long gulp.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the faint scent of beer spreading through the air.
"So, kid—how was training today? Getting any faster yet? I'm looking forward to seeing you run."
His tone was casual, the grin beneath his words plain.
Liam's chopsticks clicked softly against the bowl as he set them down. The sound lingered in the still air.
His eyes stayed on the rice, shoulders tightening just slightly.
"Uncle… I wanted to ask you something."
A low swallow followed from across the table. The man tilted his head back again, taking another slow drink before setting the can down.
"What's on your mind?"
Liam's hands tightened around his bowl, the warmth of the rice seeping into his palms.
"Uncle… do you think track was the right choice for me?"
His words came out quietly, steady but heavy.
"Coach says I'm too tall. I can't even get under eleven seconds anymore. Every run feels slower than the last."
The can touched the table with a soft thud. A sigh followed, deep and low.
"Don't let that get to you, Liam. Everyone hits a wall. You just have to push through. Keep working, that's all there is."
"It's just…" His voice fell to almost a whisper. "I give everything, and nothing changes. Lately, it's been—empty. Running alone, again and again."
Silence filled the room. Only the faint hum of the ceiling light moved through the air.
His uncle's chair creaked slightly as he leaned forward. "What are you saying, exactly?"
Liam drew in a slow breath. "Maybe… I'm not meant for track."
A short burst of laughter broke the stillness. "That's a good one, Liam. For a second, I thought you were serious."
His uncle shook his head, still smiling, the sound of the beer can crumpling softly in his hand.
Liam's fingers brushed the edge of his bowl as he spoke, eyes still lowered.
"I was talking with a friend earlier… and I realized I might be better suited for team sports. He plays basketball, and he really enjoys it. When I play too, it feels—fun. Different."
The scrape of a chair cut through the still air. His uncle let out a short, dry laugh.
"Basketball? You mean that thing where you bounce a ball and throw it at a hoop?"
A click followed—metal striking metal—then the soft hiss of flame. The cigarette tip glowed in the dim light.
"That's a kid's pastime. Who in their right mind takes that seriously?"
Smoke drifted through the room, curling upward in slow spirals, the sharp scent pressing against Liam's nose as the air grew heavier.
The sudden scrape of wood tore through the air as Liam pushed back his chair. The legs shrieked against the floor.
His hands came down hard on the table — the bowls trembled, a pair of chopsticks rolling toward the edge.
"That's enough!"
His voice cut through the room, sharp and trembling. The air felt tight, almost pulsing with heat.
"You can insult me, my coach, even track if you want," he said, his breath uneven, "but don't you dare mock Hayato's passion. You don't get to ridicule a sport you don't understand."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint rattle of dishes settling.
Liam straightened, his voice lower now but still firm.
"And just so you know… I was thinking about joining the basketball team."
"Watch your tone when you speak to me."
His uncle's voice snapped through the room, cold and edged. His eyes narrowed, the lines around them deepening as he leaned forward.
"I can't believe you'd even think about joining that ridiculous sport. There's no future in it. Track gives you real chances — that's where your focus should be. You've worked too hard to throw it away. Basketball? It's nonsense, and you know it."
Liam's hands balled into fists at his sides. His breath trembled.
"How can there be any chance," he said, the words straining out, "when I can't even break eleven seconds?"
His voice wavered, rising despite himself.
"I didn't choose track because I loved it — I did it for you! I just wanted you to be proud of me!"
The last words broke apart in the air, raw and unsteady, hanging there between them.
"What?"
Liam straightened, the tension still clinging to his shoulders.
"I'm going to my room. Goodnight."
His voice was flat, almost hollow. He turned without waiting for a response.
Each step landed heavy against the wood, echoing through the hallway until the door closed with a soft click.
Silence took hold of the dining room. The light hummed faintly above the table.
His uncle leaned back, the cigarette resting between his fingers. The smoke coiled upward, thin and restless.
"So all this time… he was running just to please me."
The words slipped out low, barely audible. His gaze followed the smoke as it twisted toward the ceiling.
"I really thought it was his passion."
He exhaled slowly. "Well. What do you know."
"That's the first time that boy has opened up like that since he came to Japan."
His grandma's voice carried a weight that filled the quiet room. She rose slowly from her cushion, the lines in her brow deepening as she looked toward the hallway.
"All that pressure must've finally caught up to him. He's always done what you told him without question, but he's not a child anymore."
She gathered her sleeves, her tone softening.
"I'll speak with him. And you, my son… you should've seen this coming. He sees you as a father. It's time you acted like one."
Her slippers brushed against the tatami as she left the room, the scent of smoke fading behind her.
In the narrow hall, she stopped before Liam's door and lifted her hand.
A quiet knock sounded—gentle, careful.
"Liam," she murmured, her eyes weary yet kind. "May I come in?"
The door slid open with a faint creak. Liam stood there, the strain in his face easing as he met her eyes.
"Listen here, boy," she began, her tone firm but warm. "Do what you love. What you want. This is your life—no one else's. Don't let that fool of a son of mine tell you otherwise."
A faint huff left her nose. "He nearly got both of you killed in the UK, running his mouth and tangling with the British Mafia. Honestly, he's hopeless."
Liam's lips lifted into a small, tired smile. "You're right, Grandma. I've already made up my mind. Thank you."
Her shoulders eased a little.
"Good. Now, take a shower before bed—you reek. I'd like to live a few more years, if you don't mind."
She waved a hand dramatically in front of her face.
Liam let out a quiet breath, half amusement, half surrender. "That's cold," he murmured, sinking back onto his futon.
The mattress gave a soft sigh beneath him as he stared at the ceiling, the room settling into a calm stillness once more.
Steam curled faintly from the bathroom doorway.
Liam ran a towel through his hair, droplets tracing down his neck and onto his collarbone.
The faint scent of soap lingered in the air as he stepped into his room, body loose from the heat of the bath.
He set the towel aside, switched on the small desk lamp, and lowered himself onto the futon.
The mattress gave beneath his weight.
He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, the warmth wrapping around him as the cool night air pressed against the window.
The soft hum of the lamp filled the quiet. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, unfocused, his breathing even but shallow.
It's been four years since I came to Japan…
The light pooled dimly around him, the edges of the room fading into shadow.
His fingers tightened around the blanket.
I was born in England. Father was always busy — meetings, phone calls, papers everywhere. He said he was building something big.
A faint image flickered in his mind — a younger version of himself sitting at a large desk, watching his father scribble numbers across a notepad.
The faint scent of ink, the ticking of a wall clock, the sound of coins clinking in a jar when his father dropped them in and smiled.
He was a businessman, always chasing new ventures, borrowing money from people he shouldn't have — gangs, killers. When everything collapsed, he couldn't pay them back.
The memory twisted — the front door thrown open, shouts in the distance, his mother's muffled sob.
They killed him.
Liam swallowed, his eyes fixed on the faint glow of the lamp.
After that, I was sent to Mexico to live with my uncle. For a while, I thought we were safe. Then the Mafia found us. Two months later, they came for us. We barely escaped with our lives.
Another flash — the blinding lights of a car in the dark, his uncle's hand grabbing his wrist, running through narrow alleys, the air thick with smoke and gunpowder.
Then we came to Japan — to Grandma's house. She wanted to keep us as far from that world as possible. She's Japanese. Grandpa was British.
His chest rose and fell, slower now.
Uncle used to dream of being a track athlete. When he couldn't make it, he forced that dream on me. And I accepted it. Without a word.
The lamp buzzed faintly. The blanket shifted against his arm. Outside, the sound of distant cars seeped through the night air.
Starting school in Japan was hard.
I was bigger than the other kids, and my skin, my face — everything about me stood out. People stared. Some kept their distance. I couldn't understand what they said, and when I tried to speak, the words came out wrong. Every day felt like walking through a place that wasn't mine.
It was lonely.
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the lamp.
Then I met Hayato. He talked to me like I wasn't a stranger. He showed me how to play basketball and how fun it was.
A memory flickered. The sun glaring over the schoolyard. The hollow thud of the ball striking the concrete. The sting of it against his palms when Hayato passed it to him for the first time.
That sound... that feeling. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere.
A breath left him, soft and steady.
Liam's lips curved into a quiet smile as his eyes slowly drifted shut.