Ayaka never smiled when making important announcements. At least, not the kind of smile that put people at ease. And that morning, when Rai arrived at the back field with his hair still half-damp from dew and darker eye bags than usual, he immediately knew something was different.
Ayaka stood in the middle of the field, wearing her full training uniform, clipboard in hand, and an untouched bottle of water. She was unusually ready this early.
"You'll be sparring today," she said as Rai approached, without greeting.
Rai frowned. "Who's my opponent?"
"Yuda."
Yuda. A second-year who had barely spoken all this time, but was known as a player who never fell in training. The type who didn't win with style, but with patience. A living wall.
"Why not Tama first? Or the twins?" Rai asked, a little defensive.
"Because you're ready," Ayaka replied. "Or at least, you should be ready."
Rai snickered, but didn't argue. He knew that refusing a challenge like this would only make him look scared. And fear was not part of his vocabulary—or so he believed.
The court was quickly prepared. The white lines were redrawn with chalk, the net stretched, and a few new shuttlecocks were placed in the corner. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, creating jagged shadows on the surface of the court.
Yuda was already standing on the other side, wearing a dark shirt and black shorts. His racket was held casually, but his posture was perfect. Balanced. Unwavering.
Tama sat on a bench at the edge of the court, acting as an impromptu referee. Beside him, Ayaka sat on a folding stool, legs crossed, clipboard in her lap.
"Fifteen points. Rally system. No deuces. No mercy," Ayaka said.
Rai nodded, twirling his racket in his hand. He tried to read Yuda. But there was nothing to read. His opponent's face was flat, even a little blank. Like a mirror that reflected nothing.
The first serve was Rai's. He took a deep breath, then hit the shuttlecock with a quick push. Yuda took it casually, returning it to the back right corner.
Rai moved quickly, responding with a drop shot. Yuda didn't react until the last second, then stepped forward and blocked the ball with a soft, almost inaudible shot.
1–0. Yuda.
Rai sighed.
The shuttlecock was bounced again. This time it was Yuda who served. Rai tried to attack directly, but Yuda defended. The ball kept going back and forth. Rai pressed at a high tempo, trying to get Yuda out of position.
But every time he thought he had found an opening, Yuda returned the ball more slowly. Inviting. Provoking.
Rai began to lose patience in the 6th rally.
He jumped and hit the shuttlecock with a hard smash to the left side of the court. But Yuda was already there. He didn't respond with a smash. Just a lob backwards.
Rai chased. Hitting. Continued.
Sweat began to wet his temples. His breathing was heavy.
The score became 4–1. For Yuda.
On the sidelines, Tama muttered, "He's playing like he's playing against his own shadow."
Ayaka didn't answer. But her eyes were watching every detail: the tension in Rai's shoulders, the premature push in his swing, and the split-second pause as he made his decision. All of those were signals. Signals that Rai wasn't really playing. He was still fighting with something in his head.
In the middle of the court, Rai hit the shuttlecock with too much force. The shot went outside the line.
5–1. Yuda.
"You're too fast!" Ayaka shouted from the sidelines.
Rai gritted his teeth. "He's too slow!"
"Slow doesn't mean you're losing."
"But he's just holding back!"
"And you keep attacking aimlessly."
Rai stomped his foot. The sound echoed across the empty court.
Yuda stood at the end of the line, waiting patiently. His face was still calm. It was like he was reciting poetry, not playing badminton.
Rai knew that if he kept going like this, he would lose. But he couldn't stop. Every time the shuttlecock came his way, his body forced itself to attack. To beat it. To silence the voice in his head that said: You're nothing. You're just the son of a loser.
The score became 7–3. Then 9–4.
Sweat soaked Rai's shirt. His eyes were a little blurry. But he didn't back down. He kept going, kept hitting, kept charging.
Until finally—in the 11th rally—Yuda returned the ball with a high, slow hit to the back left side. Rai ran, jumped, and… stumbled.
He fell. His racket was thrown. His body hit the ground.
Silence.
Tama stood up. "Rai?"
Ayaka didn't move.
Rai squirmed slowly, then sat down. His breath was ragged.
Yuda walked over, reaching out. But Rai refused, getting up on his own. He picked up his racket, turning his body back to the line.
"Let's continue," he muttered.
Yuda nodded. But before the serve, he said softly, "You're not your father."
Rai turned quickly. His eyes sharpened.
"What?"
"I'm just saying," Yuda repeated calmly, "you're not him."
Rai stared at him for a long time.
Then he smiled.
A tired smile. But not a cynical one. Not angry.
Just... understanding.
He stood straighter now. And when the shuttlecock was thrown again, he didn't attack it straight away. He held back. Waited. Spinned the ball to the corner. Invited Yuda forward, then back.
The tempo changed.
Ayaka narrowed her eyes. "Finally..."
The score slowly changed. 9–5. Then 10–6. 11–8.
Rai was still behind. But the game was different. He was more patient. More measured. He would occasionally smash, but only when he was sure. He was no longer chasing points. He waited for an opportunity.
Yuda was still tough. But now, he had to think. He had to move.
The score ended at 15–11. Still for Yuda.
But when the final whistle blew, no one felt defeated.
Rai dropped his racket slowly. He looked up at the sky. Then took a deep breath.
And smiled.
As he walked to the edge of the court, Ayaka stood up, handing him a towel.
"Still stubborn," she said.
"But now I can hear the music," Rai replied.
Ayaka raised an eyebrow. "Music?"
"Rhythm," Rai replied. "Like you said."
He looked at his racket.
"I thought playing was all about hitting. But it turns out... there's a rhythm. There's a pause. Like... like you're waiting for the next beat in a song. Not just randomly banging on the drums."
Ayaka chuckled. "Finally you get it."
Tama came over with two bottles of water. "You were so cool just now, bro. I swear. I thought you were going to throw your racket."
"I thought so too," Rai said, opening his bottle.
Yuda approached them. He just nodded at Rai.
"You hold on. That's enough."
Rai nodded back. And in their gazes, there was a kind of silent respect that didn't need many words.
That night, Rai went home with a tired body but a light heart. In his small room, he opened his racket, cleaned the grip, and wrote something on the inside of its frame with a black marker.
Not his father's name. Not his own name.
Just one word: "Listen."
Because in the silence, between every smash and drop shot, he finally heard something that had been missing for a long time.
Himself.