“It’s just an ordinary baseball,” little Wei muttered, turning the worn leather sphere in his palms. The stitches were fraying, and the surface had dulled to a dirty cream, but something about it felt different today.

“Ordinary things hold extraordinary secrets,” his grandfather replied, his wrinkled face crinkling into a knowing smile. “Like how this baseball contains all of humanity’s memories.”

Wei laughed. “Grandpa, you’re making things up again.”

“Am I?” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Throw it.”

Wei lobbed the ball into the air. Instead of falling back down, it hung suspended, gradually beginning to glow with an ethereal blue light. Images started projecting from its surface - scenes from throughout human history flickering like an ancient film reel.

“What… what is this?” Wei whispered, transfixed.

“The Archival Sphere,” his grandfather said solemnly. “One of thousands scattered across Earth by our ancestors before the Great Memory Wipe. They knew the Corps would try to erase our past.”

“But why make it look like a baseball?”

“What better hiding place than in plain sight? Something so ordinary, no one would look twice.”

Wei watched as the projections showed crowds cheering at baseball games, families sharing meals, children playing in parks - all the simple joys that had been regulated out of existence by the Corps in their pursuit of “perfect order.”

“They banned sports because they brought out too much emotion,” his grandfather continued. “Made people too unpredictable. But they couldn’t erase what was already stored in these.”

A Corps patrol drone hummed overhead. Wei quickly grabbed the ball, extinguishing its glow. The drone paused, scanning, before moving on.

“We have to keep it safe,” Wei said with sudden conviction.

His grandfather nodded. “And share what it shows us. People need to remember there was more to life than productivity metrics and behavior scores.”

That evening, Wei gathered his friends in their secret hideout behind the abandoned stadium. As the baseball’s light illuminated their awestruck faces, he felt a spark of hope. Perhaps ordinary things really could change the world.

Three months later, Wei stood before the Corps Rehabilitation Committee, the baseball sitting accusingly on the table between them.

“And you maintain this is just an ordinary baseball?” the Chief Inspector asked.

“Of course,” Wei replied calmly. “What else would it be?”

The Inspector activated the scanning device. It showed nothing but leather, cork, and yarn.

“Very well. You may go.”

Walking home, Wei smiled, patting his pocket where the real Archival Sphere sat safely disguised as a worthless rubber ball. Sometimes the most powerful revolution wasn’t in grand gestures, but in keeping alive the memory of ordinary things - like an afternoon game of catch between a grandfather and his grandson.

Behind him, the Corps building’s screens flickered with their endless stream of productivity statistics, while hidden in plain sight, humanity’s true heritage passed from hand to hand in the form of a simple baseball.