It was a long way down, Takada thought to himself, peering over the railing. Eight floors to the pavement. That would do it, no questions needed. There were no fruit shop awnings to catch his fall and bounce him to the ground with a stumble-free dismount. But he wouldn’t jump. He knew that much. He didn’t have the desire, and while he was devastated, he couldn’t imagine spreading that devastation all over the pavement below, for some poor soul to scrape into a garbage bag. But what about his empties? He would love to send those over the edge. Dropped, not thrown, he reminded himself. The pavement was deserted and the street was almost empty of cars. He’d love to listen to the sharp crack of the cans as they hit the concrete and ricocheted about. But no, he wouldn’t do that either. He dropped the empty can to the deck and reached for the next one. Beer on the balcony in the heat of summer—usually a pleasurable activity–but not tonight.

  He glanced over his shoulder into his darkened apartment, seeing his trophy cabinet and assorted baseball memorabilia. That could all go over the edge, worthless as it all was. What was the point in keeping high school trophies, when the majors were now out of reach? Turning back, he glanced out over the balcony rail, pushed his heels up so that his chair balanced on the back legs, and took a long swig of his last beer for the night. With the can still raised to his lips, his intake stalled, as a sight caught his attention. The top few floors of the apartment building on the opposite side of the street had suddenly lit up as though it was high noon, like floodlights on a ballpark. Up behind him, behind his apartment, the moon must have passed out from behind a cloud and lit up the sky. It must be quite a moon tonight. It was a shoddy-looking apartment in the daylight, and the moonlight did it no favours. He finished his mouthful of beer and lowered the front of the chair back to the deck.

  The following night he was back out there. The Suntory had been swapped for a six-pack of Kirin Lager, but besides that, nothing had changed. There was little else to do. Ballparks stood empty, games played for TV only, but he had no desire to watch a ball game. The desire might one day return, but not yet. It was still too close, the pain too recent. The words of the team doctors and physios, and privately sought specialists, still ringing in his ears. “You’ll never throw again” they had all repeated. If he’d taken time off or sought help when the elbow pain first started, things may have turned out differently. But he hadn’t, so it didn’t. He’d played through increasing discomfort until he no longer could, at which point it was too late to save the ligaments. He could still run, catch, and hit, but you’re little use as an outfielder if you can’t pick the ball out of your glove and hurl it back to the infield. And his batting wasn’t such that he could become a designated hitter, well, not in the top Japanese leagues, at any rate. Lifting a beer to his lips was about the extent of the motion presently allowed. And he had beers to catch up on, after staying off drink to focus on the game. He’d progressed out of school, all the way to the minor league affiliate of the Yokohama Baystars. Top Professional Baseball had been just a step away, but it was now a step too far.

  He crushed the fifth can between his fingers, and as he reached for his sixth the moon again passed out from behind clouds, sending a torch-like beam onto the apartment block opposite his. The people living there, probably old or poor folk, would have needed to be sleeping with their curtains tightly drawn. Otherwise, their rooms would have lit up like mid-day. As he thought that, he noted a shape forming in the balcony door of one of the top-floor rooms—a ghostly bulge on the lace curtains. He picked up his phone to take a photo, but as he did that the bulge disappeared. Whoever had been there had probably been awoken by the moon, but they’d then returned inside. He finished his last drink and retired for the evening.

  He was back again the following night. He would have much preferred drinking with friends at an Izakaya, but what friends he did have, and he supposed there were many, were still invested in the game. A scroll through his contact list had confirmed that most of the people he knew were baseball buddies, and now was the busiest part of the season. And with social mingling being frowned upon during the partial lockdowns, he supposed he should do his sorrowful drinking alone. Stay Home, Save Lives, or something like that. He’d seen it on the news from somewhere abroad. Stay Home, Save Lives.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  He checked his phone. It was late, but one beer remained. As he reached for it, the clouds parted and the moon shone forth—an intense light. The moon must be full. Surely.

  He considered leaving his apartment and trying to find a place on the other side of the building to view the moon. As he turned, he noticed across the street in the old apartment block, movement at the same window as the previous evening. The tenant must have been awoken again. He looked over, surprised to see a young woman emerge onto the balcony. She was moving slowly. Were her eyes closed? He ducked down, scooped up his phone and began to record, peering over the railing. What was she doing? She approached the balcony rail and placed her hands on top of it. What was she looking at? Her head was directed at the sky. To the moon? And yet he’d swear her eyes were shut. Her body seemed to be pressed right up to the railing. Was she sleepwalking?

  “Hey. Hey, wake up!” he bellowed at her, the scream disappearing into the night air.

  What would his neighbours think of him screaming out in the dead of night? And then in the blink of an eye, she was gone. He looked down at the street beneath her balcony, but she wasn’t there. Thankfully. Then he saw her lace curtain move. She must have ducked down and crawled inside. Crazy. He did the same, shutting the door behind him and turning on the AC, but leaving the lights off.

  He was out there again the following night, and try as he might not to, he couldn’t help but occasionally glance toward the balcony of the building opposite. But so far there had been nothing to see. The movement on the balcony always seemed to follow the moon breaking through the clouds. He’d checked and knew that tonight was the full moon, although so far it seemed to be obscured by clouds. And he was dead tired. Weren’t the youth meant to be able to handle their drink? Starting his sixth and final beer, which he pulled out of the ice box at his feet, he picked up his phone, and with the beer in one hand and phone in the other, he nodded off.

  He awoke to the crack of the beer can hitting the balcony. He lurched forward and caught the phone that he’d unknowingly laid on his chest. How long had he been out? He checked his phone—definitely bedtime. He would return in the morning to clear up the cans. He stood and right as he did, the clouds parted, drenching the light of the full moon over the neighbourhood.

  Would she come out? He sat back down and turned his attention to the opposite balcony. It wasn’t long before he saw movement. He began recording. The lace curtain parted, and a woman stepped onto the balcony, wearing the same t-shirt as the previous night, her hair falling down the sides of her head to cover her chest. He was sure she was asleep, but something was guiding her out. A vision? She placed both hands on the balcony and leant forward. His heart leapt out of his mouth. He dropped his phone and cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hey, stop. Wake up!” he screamed, but even as he spoke, he saw her right knee appear above the rail. She was trying to throw her leg over. He spun around, scanned his balcony and fled back into the apartment. He searched the main room, eyes piercing the darkness and found what he was looking for—a ball. He ripped it from the top of the trophy it had been attached to and dashed back to the balcony. Her leg was almost over the railing. He stepped forward with his left foot, his left arm aiming outwards toward the woman. He held the ball between his right-hand fingers and thumb, behind his head—an all too familiar position. He hurled it, following its trajectory in the moonlight as it flew across the street, directly at her. It hit her right shoulder, punching her away from the railing. He thought he heard a cry as she clattered back. He remained in that posture for only a moment before fleeing into his apartment. He pulled a chair up to the darkened window and set his eyes to the opposite apartment.

  He saw movement in the ruffled lace curtain and hoped that signalled she had crawled back inside. If so, she was alive. What a relief. But what on earth had he done? He could have killed her. It had almost hit her head. A throw like that, fast and flat, could certainly take a life. It could also get a runner out at third. A flat throw from Centerfield. A runner, tagging up on second and waiting for the fly ball to be caught, taking off to third, trying to beat the throw. But they wouldn’t beat that throw. Flat and hard to third, landing at the feet of the third baseman for the tag. He glanced down at his arm. He shouldn’t have been able to make that throw. You’ll never throw again, You’ll never throw again and yet he had. A beautiful throw. He felt no pain or discomfort in the elbow. How was that possible? A miracle?

  His thoughts were interrupted by movement from the opposite apartment. He could see her figure behind the lace curtain, illuminated by the moonlight. She was gazing out. Gazing in his direction? Would she come out? He was sure she would, and then instead, she abruptly closed the curtains and disappeared from view. She was alive, but she had his ball. The commemorative trophy ball he’d won, MVP at a high school tournament. That didn’t matter, but was there anything written on the ball? Hadn’t his name been printed on it? He hoped not, but deep within him a seed of doubt began to sprout. The ball he’d thrown at her had his name written on it.