Spring sunlight filtered through the scratched windows of Shinkawa High School, catching on motes of dust that danced in the warm air.
The classroom was louder than usual.
Final-year students leaned across desks, gossiping about universities, trade schools, or the glorious freedom of doing nothing after graduation. Sheets of crisp white forms lay scattered between them—official government career surveys. Dreams printed in black ink.
Satoru Kojima sat by the window, elbow on the desk, eyes fixed on the empty lines in front of him.
Name: Satoru Kojima.
Class: 3-B.
Age: 17.
Career Aspiration: __________
His pen hovered there.
A breeze stirred the edge of the paper, rustling the corner.
He tapped the pen against the desk, gently. Once. Twice. Again.
"What's taking you so long, Kojima?" called one boy from across the room, grinning. "Don't need a form to apply to clown college!"
The others laughed.
Satoru didn't look up. His lips tugged into a lopsided smile anyway. That kind of teasing didn't sting anymore.
Not now.
---
The bell rang.
Students shuffled out, still joking, still tossing plans around like confetti.
Satoru stayed in his seat.
The form stared back at him. Empty.
He thought of Sayaka's words at the hospital. Keiko's silence. The scars lining his shoulder. The soft creak of bike pedals in the rain. The child he pulled from the fire. The way Kana watched him with clenched fists and unsure eyes.
> "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
He remembered being asked that as a kid. He used to say astronaut. Then detective. Then florist, to match his mom.
Now…
His pen touched paper.
> I want to become someone worth remembering.
He paused. Then underlined it.
---
Outside, in the hallway, Miyako lingered near the shoe lockers, clutching her schoolbag.
She'd heard the teasing. She always did. They didn't say his name outright. They didn't have to.
Everyone knew.
But no one talked about it. Like Satoru was both invisible and impossible to ignore. A rumor they respected too much to say aloud.
Helmet Guy.
She smiled to herself faintly.
Then she opened her notebook and began doodling in the margins. A boy on a bike. Wind in his hair. A helmet too big for his head. Behind him, people looking on with surprised faces. In awe. In disbelief. Some laughing. Some crying.
He pedaled through all of it.
She shaded in the wheels slowly, lost in thought.
---
Later that evening, Satoru walked home alone, bag slung over one shoulder. The cherry blossoms along the riverbank were just starting to bloom.
He stopped at the bridge and looked down at the water.
The wind played through his hair. His ribs still ached a little from the last fight. His wrist protested when he curled his fingers. But it was okay. He could handle it.
He always did.
From across the street, a girl with long dark hair stopped and stared at him.
Miyako's hands tightened around the strap of her bag.
She wanted to say something. Anything.
> "I saw your form," maybe.
"That was a nice thing to write."
"You're already someone worth remembering."
But she didn't.
She lowered her head and walked past.
Satoru caught a flicker of movement out the corner of his eye. A familiar presence.
He smiled faintly. "Evening, Miyako."
She froze mid-step.
Then turned, red-faced, bowed slightly, and scampered off without a word.
Satoru shook his head with a chuckle. She was a sweet kid.
The sun dipped lower. The breeze turned cool.
He stood there a moment longer—just a boy with tired bones and a quiet fire in his chest—and watched the petals drift down to the river.