A New Beginning
When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was a thick, scruffy beard. More accurately, a hulking bear of a man who looked like he hadn't shaved in days was hovering beside the bed, looking down at me.
"Seo-jin."
A massive, calloused hand enveloped mine.
"Can you recognize Dad?"
Before I could even answer, memories came flooding into my head. The man who always waited outside on days when filming dragged late into the night. The man who, the second I climbed into the passenger seat, would slip me a hamburger while whispering that it had to stay a secret from Mom. It was Han Seo-jin's father.
"...Yes."
At that single word, the bandit-faced man's expression completely crumpled.
"Right, right..." he murmured, repeating the words over and over as if he couldn't quite fathom his own relief.
Beside him, a middle-aged woman gently rubbed his back, though her own eyes were swollen and red. Hers was a face from the memories as well: Han Seo-jin's mother. She watched me quietly for a long moment before stepping forward to pull the blanket up to my chin.
"Get some more rest. You don't have to talk."
I had been about to ask something, but I closed my mouth. A strange, unfamiliar warmth swelled in my chest. In all my thirty-seven years, no one had ever wept beside my sickbed like this. I had spent hours wondering how on earth I was supposed to treat these two strangers, but my mind settled far quicker than expected. Whatever the reason for all this, what had happened was done, and there was no turning back the clock. At long last, I finally had parents of my own.
For the next several days, life became an endless cycle of tests and questions. Do you remember your name? Do you know where you are? Is there any pain or discomfort anywhere in your body? There were even solitary counseling sessions. Whenever asked, I answered as honestly and thoroughly as I could. After dying once already, the sheer value of health had been etched into my very bones.
Even after I was transferred to a general ward, my new parents took turns standing vigil by my bedside. Rarely was there a moment when both of them left me alone. That afternoon was no different; while Mom had stepped out for a brief errand, Dad sat by the bed peeling an apple. Despite his imposing frame, his hands were surprisingly deft, letting a long, unbroken ribbon of red peel pile neatly onto the tray.
"I'll only have a little bit," I said.
"Sure, just this piece."
He sliced off half the apple, but immediately set the knife against the remaining half. Clearly, he hadn't heard a word I said.
Instead of watching the fruit, I looked at his hands. They were crisscrossed with small, faded scars. Deep beneath the edges of his fingernails lingered faint traces of seasoning that no amount of scrubbing could wash away. The two of them ran a fried chicken joint—a modest neighborhood eatery squeezed around four small tables. Dad fried the chicken, Mom managed the register and took orders, and only late into the night when the orders finally died down would they sit together in the corner to share a quiet meal. That memory was vivid in Seo-jin's mind.
"What about the shop?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"Is it really okay for you two to stay here all day?"
"It's fine. Things have been a bit slow lately anyway."
...Aren't slow days supposed to be bad for business?
Right on cue, the ward door swung open.
"I taped a notice on the front door saying we're closed today, too," Mom announced as she stepped inside, only to freeze when she caught me staring.
Dad cleared his throat and made a show of lining up the apple slices on the tray. "Well, Mom and Dad need a little break now and then, too."
Ah. So it's not that business is slow—you just shuttered the place entirely.
"That's hardly what matters right now," Mom said with a soft sigh, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "I spoke with your homeroom teacher. For now, let's just focus on getting you better."
Even before this incident, Han Seo-jin had already taken a medical leave of absence from school. Chronic insomnia combined with crippling panic whenever she stood in front of crowds had made regular classes impossible. Yet despite all that, she had stubbornly dragged herself from one audition to the next. I recalled the bitter words Mom had once thrown at her: How can a kid who can't even sit in a classroom expect to handle a movie set?
On that day, Seo-jin had slammed her bedroom door and refused to speak, convinced her mother was deliberately tearing down her dreams. But looking back at it now through my own eyes, the picture was entirely different.
Eat something before you go.
I told you not to go today.
Do you really have to push yourself this far?
They weren't attacks; they were the ordinary, worried pleas of a mother trying to protect her child. It was only Seo-jin's battered self-esteem that had twisted them into mockery, convincing her that even her own mother looked down on her. I remembered the reflection in the entryway mirror from that day: sunken dark circles under pale eyes, coat buttons fastened crookedly. And right beside the door, Mom standing with the car keys gripped tightly in her hand—ready to drive her stubborn, unyielding daughter to the audition venue yet again.
"...Seo-jin."
I looked up.
Mom was fidgeting with the strap of the handbag resting on her lap. "You know, Mom..." Her voice trailed off, trembling slightly.
Dad set down the paring knife on the tray.
"I just wanted you to succeed," Mom continued, her voice thick with emotion. "Because you said you wanted it so badly. But watching you suffer like this over and over..." She pressed her lips together tightly. "You can stop now."
"......"
"You don't have to be an actress anymore. Not ever again."
Dad chimed in carefully, glancing at my face to gauge my reaction. "We're not telling you to decide this very second. You can take a good, long rest, and think about it slowly—"
"I'll quit."
Both of them froze instantly.
I took another bite of the apple slice in my hand and chewed. It was something I had to get out of the way sooner or later, so having them bring it up first was practically doing me a favor.
"You'll... quit?" Dad stammered.
"Yes."
"Acting?"
"Yes."
Dad glanced over at Mom, but her eyes remained locked on me, wide with disbelief. Did I answer too fast? Only then did Seo-jin's deeper memories catch up to me. The tears she shed whenever anyone suggested looking for another path. The burning anger whenever someone asked if there was anything else she wanted to do besides acting.
If I'm not an actress, then what am I? she had once screamed at the top of her lungs.
Ah. To her, acting had been what baseball was to me. Hearing a kid like that blurt out that she was quitting on the spot was bound to sound bizarre.
"To be honest, I've been thinking about it for a while," I added smoothly. "I just never found the right time to say it."
Mom's shoulders slumped, her head hanging low. "I see..." Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her bag strap. "You hated it that much, and Mom never even realized..."
"No, it wasn't that I was being forced into it," I replied hastily, trying to dispel the heavy, gloomy atmosphere. "It's just that... there's something else I suddenly want to try."
Dad nodded eagerly, latching onto the opening. "Right! You can try something else! Anything you want!"
"Baseball."
"...Huh?"
"I want to play baseball."
Dad blinked twice, utterly baffled. "Baseball? All of a sudden?"
"I thought it might be fun."
"...Well, then let's do it! We can go out and play catch together!" Dad's voice grew considerably lighter, a wide grin spreading across his bearded face. "That's wonderful! Dad can teach you everything you need to know."
Mom let out a quiet sigh of relief beside him. Clearly, they had both interpreted my words as nothing more than a desire to stretch my legs and fool around in the yard. I didn't bother correcting them; if I blurted out that I intended to go pro, they would probably summon the attending psychiatrist right back into the room.
More importantly, his words caught my attention. Dad can teach you?
Noticing my inquisitive gaze, Dad puffed out his broad chest proudly. "What? Did you forget your old man used to be a ballplayer?"
At that, a memory flashed through my mind: a framed photograph hanging beside the register in the chicken shop. A younger version of Dad in a baseball uniform, swinging a bat with ferocious power. Tucked into the bottom of the frame was a yellowed, faded newspaper clipping.
Oh, right. He had been a catcher. He spent almost his entire career in the minor leagues, with just a single brief call-up to the first-string roster. But in that lone top-tier appearance, he had crushed a dramatic walk-off home run—a tale he had bragged about until everyone around him was sick of hearing it.
"Your mother fell head over heels for me after watching that homer," Dad boasted. "If I hadn't hit that ball back then, you wouldn't even be here today."
"Would you stop bringing that up already?" Mom scolded.
"Hey, it's the god's honest truth!" Dad chuckled, completely unfazed by her glare.
A catcher, huh? I glanced once more at those thick, rugged hands of his. Perfect. It seemed I already had someone to catch my pitches.
Naturally, I couldn't just pick up a ball the moment I was discharged from the hospital. For several weeks, I stayed home resting, only making routine outpatient visits. I had enough common sense not to push my luck right away. Instead, once the sun went down, I took leisurely walks through the neighborhood to slowly rebuild my basic stamina.
"Phew..."
When my breath ran short, I slowed my pace; once my breathing leveled out, I pushed forward again. That monotonous, grinding process felt more precious to me than words could describe. I took my time, patiently learning how this new vessel operated.
For now, my physical condition was miles away from matching an average adult male. Climbing just a few flights of stairs left my thighs trembling like jelly. Whenever I tried mimicking a gentle pitching motion in front of the full-length mirror, my plant leg wobbled so badly I nearly lost my balance.
I have to rebuild this body completely from scratch.
Fortunately, there were silver linings. At 168 centimeters, I was fairly tall for a girl. On top of that, my underlying bone structure and physical proportions showed undeniable athletic potential.
Come to think of it... what was that message back then?
A strange sentence that had flashed before my eyes in the hospital suddenly surfaced in my mind.
Inherent physical limiters are released solely for training and physical growth related to baseball.
Whenever I tried to recall it clearly, the memory blurred like a half-forgotten dream. My mind had been delirious at the time, and since I had spent my dying moments thinking of nothing but baseball, it wouldn't have been surprising if my brain had simply hallucinated the whole thing.
Inherent physical limiters released? What does that even mean? If it implies I can transcend the biological ceilings of a female body...
It would be a lie to say I wasn't thrilled, but right now there was no way to verify whether it had been real. Regardless, the fact remained that I was alive, and I was healthy. For now, that was more than enough. I had already spent far too many days watching from the sidelines to give up before I even threw a single pitch.
About a month after being discharged from the hospital, the day finally came: Dad and I stepped out onto the dirt to play catch.
"Want me to buy you a new one?"
I looked up as I slid my left hand into the leather glove. Dad was sitting on a park bench across from me, smiling warmly. We were at the athletic field of the local neighborhood sports park; since it was a weekday morning, only a handful of elderly residents were strolling along the outer track.
"No, this is fine."
"Isn't it too old? They make plenty of pretty, colorful gloves for girls these days."
The glove on my hand was an old one Dad used to use during his playing days. The leather was aged and scuffed, but it was already broken in to perfection, making it ideal for my current grip.
"It fits my hand just right."
"Does it? Well, let me know anytime if you change your mind."
I nodded and pulled the wrist strap tight. Dad strapped on his own mitt and pushed himself up from the bench. It was a catcher's mitt—clearly untouched for years, yet remarkably well-oiled and cared for.
I shifted my gaze to the baseball in my right hand. Running my fingers over the smooth white leather, I felt the raised red stitching beneath my skin. I rolled it slowly across my palm, savoring the familiar texture. I positioned two fingers across the four-seam grip. Since my hands were much smaller now than in my previous life, holding it the way I used to felt awkward and loose, so I narrowed the spacing between my index and middle fingers slightly.
"Let's start from up close," Dad said, taking up a stance just a few paces away. "Don't aim for my face—look right here at Dad's chest and throw it easy."
"Okay."
"You don't have to throw hard."
There was no need to worry about that; this frail body couldn't throw hard even if I wanted to. I rotated my right shoulder a couple of times to loosen the joint, then turned sideways into a standard pitching stance. Stepping lightly forward with my lead foot, I whipped my arm over.
The ball slipped cleanly off my fingertips, arcing through the short distance between us.
Thwap!
Dad dropped his mitt down near his waist to snag the ball. It had come in noticeably lower than intended.
"Hey, that was great, sweetheart!"
Great? Was this man really an ex-pro catcher if he handed out compliments that easily? Yet despite the cynical thought, the corners of my lips kept tugging upward. How long had it been since I last felt the rush of throwing a baseball?
"Here it comes, catch!"
Dad tossed the ball back in a gentle, looping arc. I caught it in the web of my glove, the impact sending a crisp shockwave through the leather into my left palm. Reaching in with my right hand, I extracted the ball and set my feet again.
My second throw sailed a bit high.
"Nice one!" Dad cheered, ready to praise anything I did.
I shook my head with a wry smile. On the first throw, my upper body had lurched forward too early; on the second, my arm had lagged behind my stride. Narrowing my landing stride slightly, I threw again with the exact same power.
Pop!
The ball popped cleanly into the center of Dad's mitt right at chest level. Now that felt decent. We continued the rhythm back and forth for several minutes, and before long, the back of my neck began to prickle with heat. Purely out of habit, my mind darted to my chest, checking for that familiar, suffocating ache—but thankfully, my heart beat steady and clear.
"Seo-jin," Dad called out, lowering his mitt. "Let's take a break if you're tired."
"I'm fine."
"...Are you sure?"
Dad pointed at my face. When I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, it came away drenched in sweat.
"Ah..." Embarrassed, I toyed with the seams of the baseball in my grip. "Just a few more throws, please."
Dad studied me for a beat before raising his mitt again. "All right. Just a few more."
Sniffing away a bit of sweat, I delivered the ball. Once again, it landed squarely in the sweet spot of his mitt. It felt amazing. If someone told me I had to throw at this sluggish pace for the rest of my life, I thought I might still be happy.
Not that I had the slightest intention of staying at this level, of course.
"Last one!" Dad announced a short while later.
Reluctantly, I nodded. Fatigue was creeping into my arm, causing my release to tense up; if I wanted to throw again tomorrow, calling it a day here was the right call.
Dad tossed the ball back to me. Hm? Whether by mistake or a slight slip of his fingers, his return throw drifted off to my right side.
Tap-tap.
Pure reflex took over before my brain could even process the movement. My feet shifted into a fluid side-step, matching the trajectory of the ball. The instant the ball hit the leather, my bare right hand snapped right beside the pocket, securing it cleanly. I transferred the ball in front of my chest and planted my back foot in one seamless, unbroken motion. There was no need to pause or reset my stance—my body simply channeled the momentum, snapping my arm forward with a compact, whipped motion.
Pop!
A crisp sound echoed from Dad's mitt. The throw hadn't been particularly fast, yet Dad stood frozen, making no move to take the ball out. He stared down into the pocket of his mitt, then shifted his gaze toward my feet.
"Seo-jin."
"Yes?"
"Have you... ever played baseball before?"