The morning was heavy with late winter chill, and the sky hung low with slate-colored clouds. The bell above the Kojima flower shop door jingled once, twice, and then silence. No footsteps followed. Just a thump.
Satoru dropped the broom and ran.
His mother lay collapsed between rows of potted tulips, a shattered vase at her side. Her breath came in short, wheezing gasps, one trembling hand clutching her chest.
"Mom? Mom!" he cried, sliding to her side.
Her eyes fluttered open, barely focused. "Sorry... I was just trying to—"
"Don't talk," he whispered. "I'm calling Keiko. We'll get you to a hospital. Just stay awake, okay? Stay with me."
She gave a faint nod, but her grip on his arm was too weak to hold.
---
By noon, the flower shop lights were off, a "Closed for the day" sign taped to the door in Satoru's rushed handwriting. Inside Aizawa General Hospital, Room 303, a steady beep marked each heartbeat like a countdown.
Nurse Sayaka Nakamura flipped through the clipboard with clinical precision, though her brow creased as she read the preliminary scans.
"Stress, chronic fatigue, respiratory strain… and she's been hiding it for a while," she muttered.
Satoru sat rigid on the plastic chair beside the bed, his hands wrung so tightly together they looked bloodless. His mother rested quietly now, IV tubes in her arm, oxygen line beneath her nose.
"How long does she have to stay here?" he asked.
Sayaka didn't answer immediately. She glanced from the readings to the woman in the bed, then to the exhausted boy beside her.
"Weeks, at least," she said at last. "Maybe months. She pushed herself too far for too long."
Satoru's gaze dropped. "She didn't want to worry us."
Sayaka gave a soft sigh. "That's what all mothers say. But it's your turn now. Step up."
He nodded, stiffly. "I'll run the shop. I can handle it."
Sayaka's voice dropped slightly. "You're still in school. You work part-time with a hero agency. You help everyone but yourself."
"She's my mom. I owe her everything."
That silenced Sayaka for a moment. Then she stepped back. "I'll let your sister know the ward's settled. You should get some rest, Kojima."
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
Later, Keiko arrived—still in her patrol uniform, boots wet from running. She didn't ask what happened. She just sat on the other side of the bed and stared at their mother for a long time.
When her voice finally broke the silence, it was strained. "You're not quitting school. Or the agency. We'll find a way."
Satoru gave a tired laugh. "You're bossy even when you're worried."
"And you're reckless even when you're breaking," she shot back.
They both fell quiet.
Outside, the sky began to rain, soft and steady against the hospital window. Inside, Satoru leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead to his mother's hand.
"I'll manage," he whispered.
Even if he didn't.