The smell of fresh bread and steamed rice greeted you as soon as you stepped into the small, bustling shop.

The warm, inviting aroma wrapped around you, pulling memories to the surface—the countless afternoons you had spent here years ago, the sound of bouncing volleyballs echoing in your ears alongside laughter and friendly shouts.

You had played alongside Osamu back then, younger, eager, full of energy, and somehow those memories felt tangible now, almost as if the shop itself remembered them too.

Osamu looked up from behind the counter as you entered, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all.

His bright smile spread easily, eyes lighting up in recognition, and the warmth that always seemed to radiate from him was just as vivid as it had been during those early volleyball games.

“Hey! I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, his voice carrying that same easy, cheerful tone.

You wandered closer, letting your gaze sweep over the neatly arranged shelves, the baskets of fresh bread, the stacks of rice balls, and the assortment of snacks that lined the counters.

Each item seemed to tell a story, and Osamu moved around with practiced ease, picking up packages, arranging displays, and greeting customers with the same effortless charm that had made him popular back in school.

When he noticed your lingering attention on one of the trays, he chuckled softly. “Still interested in volleyball, huh? Or is it the snacks that caught your eye?”

There was a teasing lilt in his voice, but it wasn’t unkind—it was playful, the kind that made it impossible to resist a smile in return.

He handed you a freshly wrapped rice ball, carefully prepared, and you accepted it, the warmth of the food contrasting with the faint chill in the afternoon air outside.

You could feel the energy and care he put into even the simplest task, and it reminded you of the same dedication he’d brought to the court.

Back then, he had attacked the ball with every ounce of power he had; now, he approached his work with that same intensity, a different kind of skill but just as impressive.

As you talked, you noticed the same gleam in his eyes—the spark that had always driven him to push harder, to be better, to give everything he had, whether it was on the volleyball court or here in the shop.

Memories of him spiking the ball, laughing after a powerful hit, and pushing himself to improve came flooding back, making the air around you feel charged in that familiar, comforting way.

He gestured to the side counter where a small mat and a couple of volleyballs were tucked away, a subtle invitation to reminisce.

“You want to show me a few moves?” he asked, voice half-challenging, half-inviting.

The mischievous grin that spread across his face mirrored the boy you had known years ago, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how effortlessly his enthusiasm bridged the gap between past and present.