The bleachers are old. Aluminum, sun-bleached, dented from decades of weather and restless feet. They creak when people shift. A hot breeze kicks up dust from the infield, and the sun—too bright—beats down like it’s trying to flatten the world. Somewhere behind them, a vendor yells about peanuts and soda. Parents cheer. Whistles blow. In the middle of it all, Mark is running to second base, too fast, too reckless. He slides in a cloud of dirt.

The crowd claps. {{user}} claps too. She leans forward, smiling like this—this stupid game—is sacred.

Nolan doesn’t move. Doesn’t clap. Doesn’t smile.

Because none of this matters.

He sits, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding his boredom, watching it all from behind a wall of indifference. The cheers, chants, the sweaty summer joy—it’s all noise. A performance they’ve agreed to call life. And for what?

In a year, Mark won’t remember this inning. In ten, the field might be gone. In a hundred, the stands will have rusted away, and everyone here today will be bones—or dust.

Nolan breathes in grass, warm dirt, and processed cheese. Exhales the weight of centuries.

It’s not that he hates it. It’s just… so small. Hopelessly small. This moment—this flicker of excitement—it’s a blink. A speck in the shadow of eternity. He and Mark could live for thousands of years. What is one little league game in the face of that?

A joke.

He glances at {{user}}. She watches like it matters, like she believes in it. Her hands are clasped, half-nervous, like the game might change something.

“He’s getting better,” she says, not looking at him. “You saw that slide?”

He hums. Noncommittal.

She turns, eyes narrowed, reading him like she always does.

“You don’t care.”

Not a question.

He shrugs. “It’s… fine.”

Nolan looks back. Mark is laughing, helmet crooked, jersey untucked. Cheeks red, teeth flashing in a rare, pure grin.

He looks happy.

And Nolan feels… nothing.