Chapter 813: Parent’s Arrival

Later that evening, after Sumire had gone to find a hotel and promised to return the next day, Hiro’s phone buzzed again.

He expected it to be her. Instead, it was a name he hadn’t seen in a while.

Shun.

I heard about the injury. Are you okay?

Hiro stared at the message. Shun—his childhood friend, the goalkeeper for Real Sociedad. They had grown up together at Kawasaki Frontale’s youth academy, two kids who dreamed of Europe and somehow made it.

I’m alive, Hiro typed back. The surgery went well. Recovery starts now.

A few seconds passed. Then the phone rang.

Hiro answered.

"You sound like a robot," Shun’s voice came through. "Don’t do that. I know you better than that."

Hiro felt something loosen in his chest. "Shun—"

"Don’t. Don’t try to be strong with me." There was a pause. "I saw the tackle. I watched it ten times. You didn’t see it coming. That’s not like you."

Hiro closed his eyes. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

"I don’t know. The game. The pressure. Him." He paused. "I saw something in his eyes. Desperation. I’ve seen it before. But I didn’t—"

"You didn’t what?"

"I didn’t move."

Silence descended.

"You’re blaming yourself," Shun said quietly.

"I should have seen it coming."

"Hiro." Shun’s voice was firm. "You’re the best player I’ve ever shared a pitch with. You’ve got instincts that make no sense. But you’re not invincible. No one is."

Hiro didn’t respond.

"I’m coming to see you," Shun continued. "I have a break in two weeks. I’ll fly to Madrid. We’ll talk properly. But for now—"

"For now?"

"For now, rest. Focus on recovering. Don’t let that guilt eat you alive. It wasn’t your fault."

Hiro wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he could have done something different. But he was too tired.

"Okay," he said.

"Good." Shun’s voice softened. "I’ll see you soon, Hiro."

"Thanks, Shun."

The call ended.

Hiro set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.

The next morning, Hiro received another message—this one from his mother.

We booked tickets. Your father and I will be there in three days. Don’t argue.

He smiled. He had learned long ago not to argue with Momo Takahashi.

I won’t, he replied. I’ll be here.

His phone buzzed again.

Your father wants to know if you’ve been eating properly.

Hiro laughed out loud—a real, honest laugh.

Tell him I’m eating. Tell him the food here is terrible, but I’m eating.

The reply came quickly: He says he’ll bring you some proper food from home. He’s already making a list.

Hiro’s eyes stung.

I love you both.

We love you too. Rest up. We’ll be there soon.

He set the phone down and looked out the window. The Madrid skyline stretched before him, golden in the morning light.

He thought about Sumire, Shun, his parents, and his well-wishers who had been wishing him well since the tackle.

Before, in his first life, he had been alone.

He didn’t have a single soul caring about him.

Perhaps there were people who cared about him. But he never bothered to respond. Perhaps that was the reason he ended up alone and isolated.

**** ****

The next evening his parents arrived.

He had been waiting by the window since morning, watching the Madrid skyline shift from grey to gold.

The rehabilitation facility was quiet on weekends—fewer nurses, fewer patients, fewer distractions. He had asked the staff to let his parents in without fuss, and they had agreed.

When the door opened, he saw his mother first.

Momo Takahashi was a small woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile that had never lost its brightness, even after years of raising a football prodigy.

She carried a large bag in one hand and a bouquet in the other. Behind her stood his father—Takashi Takahashi, a tall, broad-shouldered man with silver-streaked hair and a face that rarely showed emotion but could not hide the worry creasing his brow.

"Hiro."

His mother’s voice was soft, trembling.

She crossed the room in seconds and wrapped her arms around him. He felt her tears against his shoulder.

"I’m okay, Mom."

"You’re in a hospital bed."

"A very comfortable hospital bed."

She pulled back and smacked his arm gently. "Don’t joke. Don’t you dare joke about this."

"He’s joking because he’s embarrassed," his father said from the doorway. Takashi walked forward slowly, his hands in his pockets. He stopped beside the bed and looked down at his son.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he extended his hand.

Hiro took it.

"You’ll be fine," Takashi said. "You’ve always been fine."

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t reassurance. It was a statement like a declaration of faith.

Hiro nodded. "I know, Dad."

Takashi squeezed his hand once, then released it. He turned to the window, his back to them, and stared out at the city.

"I brought you food," his mother said, already unpacking the bag. "Proper food. Rice, soup, vegetables. Not that hospital garbage they’ve been feeding you."

Hiro laughed. "It’s not garbage."

"It’s not food either."

She set the containers on the bedside table, arranging them with the precision of someone who had been packing lunches for twenty years. Hiro watched her, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest.

"How long are you staying?"

"A week," she said. "We’ve arranged everything. The club helped."

Hiro blinked. "The club?"

"Diego called us," Takashi said without turning from the window. "He explained the situation. He offered to arrange our flights and our accommodation. He said you would need a family."

Hiro was silent.

Diego had done that—without telling him. Without asking for permission. He had simply reached out and made it happen.

"He’s a good man," Hiro’s mother said, as if reading his thoughts. "You’re lucky to have him as a coach."

Hiro nodded. "I know."

That evening, after his parents had settled into a nearby hotel and promised to return in the morning, Hiro sat alone in his room. His leg ached dully, the first signs of healing, Dr. Nakamura had said. The pain would become a companion for the next few weeks.