The train groaned into motion, metal sighing against metal. Ren leaned his forehead against the glass and watched the tunnel lights flick past like excuses—bright, gone, bright, gone.
The mark on his palm had faded. Or maybe it had never been there. A star, a dot—some trick of reflection and nerves. He clenched his fist, then opened it again. Nothing. Just skin pale from too much fluorescent light.
I'm tired. That's all. If you're tired enough, even a pawn shop whispers back.
The train climbed out of the tunnel into a slice of Tokyo. Office towers, clouds. The kind of evening that didn't care about him.
At work the next day, his boss didn't even look up from the screen. "Tachibana. We'll need you to cover for Matsui tomorrow. Presentation draft."
Ren blinked. "I thought—Matsui's the one—"
"He's sick. Or pretending to be. Doesn't matter. You'll stand in."
Stand in. A substitute. Of course. He bowed, shallow enough to hide his tightening jaw. "Yes, sir."
The day blurred. Emails, corrections, coffee bitter enough to punish him for drinking it. His boss's pen clicked anyway. And when he stepped into the tiny break room, two coworkers paused their conversation just long enough for silence to mean everything.
"Poor guy," one whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. "Always looks like he's carrying three funerals."
Ren pretended the vending machine was louder than them.
It's fine. If I don't matter, then I can't disappoint anyone. Right?
That night, he pulled on old sneakers and went back to the riverside padel courts. He told himself it was for fresh air. His body knew better. The sound of the ball—pock, pock—had followed him all day like a metronome inside his ribs.
The rec group was already there. Two women he used to know in high school waved vaguely, like acknowledging a stranger they couldn't quite place. One of them was Haruka—the girl who had laughed at his first clumsy serve when he was fifteen. He had confessed to her once, fumbling words, sweating through his collar.
She had smiled kindly and said, "Ren, you're nice. But you're too ordinary. I want someone... stronger."
It was ten years ago. He still remembered the exact word: ordinary.
Now she was laughing at a joke from another player, arm hooked through someone else's. A ring glinted on her finger. Her life had moved forward. His hadn't even started.
The others needed a spare scorer again. He nodded, clipboard in hand. His sneakers squeaked when he shifted in the chair. The smell of the river clung to his jacket. Every rally looked like a conversation in a language he had once tried to learn and failed.
The ball came loose again, rolling toward him. He stooped, lifted it with the same cheap racket still leaning by the fence. This time, he swung earlier. The ball hit the frame anyway. A flat sound. Laughter again. Not cruel. Just casual. Which was worse.
"Scorekeeper-san, stick to numbers," someone called, same joke as yesterday.
He grinned like it was new.
Numbers don't laugh back. That's why they're easier.
Afterward, he walked home through alleys that smelled of ramen broth and beer foam. Every shop was bright enough to say welcome to someone else. His phone buzzed again.
A message from his landlord. Rent due. No extensions this time.
Another from his boss. Draft still sloppy. Tighten by morning.
And one from his mother, late, polite. How are you eating? Don't work too hard.
He typed three different replies. Deleted them all. Put the phone away.
He looked up at the sky, a thin line of gray above the towers. No stars tonight. Maybe stars didn't bother with cities like this.
Is this it? Is this really all I'll ever be? A substitute at work, a scorekeeper in love, a ghost in sport?
The pawn shop sign wasn't supposed to be lit again. But when he turned the corner, there it was: NO NAME PAWN, flickering faint, waiting. The CLOSED sign still hung, but the chain on the door was looser, as if it remembered his hand.
He stopped. His throat tightened.
I shouldn't. This is how stories start when people disappear.
The rain began again, light, almost kind. It beaded on his eyelashes until the pawn shop blurred into a smear of gray and gold.
Ren's hand moved without permission, toward the handle that had rattled for him once already.
The chain slid again. The lock sighed open.
And the whisper returned, clearer this time:
Stand after losing. Enter the court.
Ren froze. Then, with the rain soaking into his collar, he pulled the door wide.