The bell above the door to the Kojima Flower Shop jingled softly as Miyako stepped inside.
The scent hit her first—earthy, gentle, calming. A blend of lilies, eucalyptus, and roses. It always smelled like spring in here, even when the skies outside were gray and the streets soaked from last night's rain.
She hesitated just past the threshold, clutching a small paper bag in both hands.
The shop was quiet.
The shelves were lined with little arrangements and potted greens, each tagged with neat handwritten labels. The counter sat empty, a mug still warm on its surface—someone had been there recently. But no one was now.
Miyako stepped further in. Her eyes scanned the room nervously, almost guiltily.
No sign of Satoru.
She exhaled. A part of her was relieved. Another part—not so much.
She stopped in front of the small shelf near the window, where violets spilled lazily out of a wooden crate. Their purple blooms tilted slightly toward the weak morning light.
He wasn't at school again today. That made four days in a row.
She'd overheard the rumors. "He broke his arm this time." "I think he fought off two guys." "They say it was for a couple being mugged."
They never said his name.
They didn't have to.
Everyone knew who "Helmet Guy" was now. Everyone saw the clips. No one brought it up in class, but they whispered. Some laughed. Others admired him from a distance they'd never dare to cross.
But Miyako…
She just worried.
He always looked tired, even before all this started. Always carried bruises under his sleeves. Always pedaled his bike like the world depended on it.
Maybe it did.
She dug into her paper bag and pulled out a small crane, carefully folded from sakura-pink patterned washi paper.
It had taken her three tries to get the folds right.
She placed the crane carefully on the counter, beside the register, and then pulled out a note.
Her handwriting was tiny but tidy.
> "Your flowers always make people feel safe.
I hope you're resting, too.
– M."
She paused, then folded the note in half and tucked it under the crane's wing.
The jingle of a door behind the counter startled her. She turned quickly—Keiko Kojima stood there, still in uniform, a jacket draped over one arm.
Keiko blinked when she saw her.
Miyako froze.
"Oh," Keiko said. Her voice wasn't cold. Just… surprised.
"I—" Miyako bowed quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sneak in— I was just—he's not here—"
Keiko walked forward, looking past her to the paper crane and the note.
"He's still in the hospital," Keiko said after a beat. "He'll be out in a few days. Broke his arm being an idiot again."
Miyako's face turned bright red. "I… I heard."
Keiko eyed her for a second longer, then her expression softened.
"That's sweet," she said, nodding at the crane. "He'll like it."
Miyako twisted the strap of her bag. "I didn't know if it was okay…"
"It is," Keiko said. "And thank you. He… doesn't get things like that often."
Miyako nodded, still avoiding eye contact. "I just… wanted him to know. People notice. Even if they don't say anything."
Keiko studied the girl.
"You in his class?"
"I'm… a year under."
"Right." Keiko looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well. I'll make sure he sees it."
Miyako bowed again, deeply this time. "Thank you, Kojima-san."
Keiko half-smiled. "Call me Keiko. Kojima-san makes me feel like a teacher."
Miyako's eyes flickered up. She managed the smallest, most tentative smile.
Then, with a murmured goodbye, she slipped out the door. The bell jingled again in her wake.
Keiko watched her go.
Then she picked up the crane and turned it over in her hand. The folds were careful, a little creased from being held too tightly.
She glanced at the note, read it once, and felt something warm knot behind her ribs.
"Idiot," she muttered affectionately.
She placed the crane and note into a small plastic container she knew Satoru used for receipts and pencil sharpeners.
When he got home, she'd make sure it was the first thing he saw.
---
Elsewhere…
Miyako walked the long route home, bag light in her hands, heart even lighter.
She didn't know if he'd even read it. Or recognize her name. Or remember their rooftop conversation months ago.
But she'd written it anyway.
Because even if he didn't know—
He mattered to someone.