The morning air was crisp, smelling faintly of soil and dew as you followed Shinsuke Kita across the small farmland he managed with such meticulous care.

The sun had just begun to climb, casting a golden glow over the rows of vegetables, and the rhythm of nature felt soothing in a way that contrasted sharply with the fast pace of volleyball and the chaos of city life.

Kita moved with quiet efficiency, his tall frame gliding along the rows of crops with practiced ease.

“You start by loosening the soil around the plants,” he instructed, demonstrating with smooth, precise motions.

The spade dug into the earth effortlessly, the soil turning dark and crumbly in his hands. You picked up your own tool, trying to mimic his motions, but immediately noticed the difference.

The weight of the spade felt unfamiliar, the soil clinging stubbornly to the edges, and every movement felt slightly off compared to his fluid, controlled motions.

Kita’s gaze lingered on you—not critically, not impatiently, but with a calm attentiveness that made you self-conscious despite your size and normally commanding presence.

“Loosen it gently,” he said, voice even and measured. “The roots are delicate. Too much force and you’ll damage them.” His instructions were simple, but the precision behind them was exacting, and it made you focus harder than you expected.

As you bent down to water the small vegetable beds, he showed you the proper technique, tilting the watering can just so, ensuring the droplets fell evenly across the soil rather than washing away the fragile seedlings.

The sunlight caught on his hair, his expression calm but intensely focused, and despite yourself, you found your pulse quickening—not from physical exertion, but from the subtle presence of his careful attention.

“You’ve got to feel the plants,” he explained quietly, bending to check the growth of a tomato plant.

“Understand their needs, anticipate their reactions. Farming isn’t just about force—it’s about patience, observation, and timing.”

You nodded, trying to absorb every word, every motion, as he guided you through each step: digging, watering, pruning, checking for pests.

The work was hard but satisfying, each action precise yet rhythmic, and his instructions made it feel almost like a dance, each movement deliberate and meaningful.

Even when your hands were covered in soil and your back ached from bending, Kita remained calm, walking beside you with the quiet authority of someone who had spent years mastering both the land and himself.

Occasionally, he would reach out to adjust your posture or correct your grip, his touch brief but firm, his movements careful and deliberate.

It was grounding in a way that made the physical labor easier, but also strangely intimate—an unspoken trust between teacher and student, between two people in sync with the rhythm of the land.

By midday, the two of you had covered several rows of crops, the soil freshly tilled, the plants carefully watered, and a quiet satisfaction settled over the field.

You glanced at Kita, seeing the calm determination in his posture, the meticulous care in every movement, and you couldn’t help but admire him—not just as a teacher, but as someone whose focus and dedication were magnetic, even in the simple, grounding act of farming.

As the sun climbed higher, you wiped the sweat from your brow and stood back to look at the work you’d done together.

Kita’s eyes met yours, calm and steady as always, but for a moment, there was a flicker of something almost like pride.

“You’re improving,” he said simply, and despite the modesty of the praise, it made your chest swell with satisfaction.

Under his guidance, you had learned more than just farming techniques—you had glimpsed the patience, the quiet strength, and the subtle power that defined Shinsuke Kita, both on the court and off.