“Thanks,” Rosa said, accepting the bottle. “Just thinking.”
“You’re still here.”
“You know a good ramen place nearby?” she asked.
They walked out together under the flickering stadium lights — just two people, post-race, sharing a quiet beginning.
She turned. A young Japanese man in a track staff jacket held out a sports drink. “Saw your race. Good finish.”
The air smelled of rain and rubber. Somewhere beyond the stadium, a shinkansen rumbled through the night. Rosa finally unlaced her spikes.
“No,” he agreed. “But maybe that’s not why you run.”
