Morning light crept through the shop windows, casting golden bars across the wooden counter. The air smelled of lilies and worn-out coffee. Satoru stood behind the register, apron tied haphazardly over his school uniform, eyes barely open as he rearranged a bouquet for the third time.
His phone buzzed. A text from Keiko: "How's Mom this morning?"
He glanced at the photo he'd taken—his mother asleep, tubes in her arms, face pale against the white of her hospital pillow. He typed back: "Still asleep. Breathing looks steady."
He didn't mention the new medication. Or the doctor's look when he asked how long the stay might be.
The bell above the door jingled. A customer entered. Satoru smiled instinctively, all muscle memory now. The customer complimented the display, placed an order, and left. He couldn't remember their face ten seconds later.
By the time he closed the shop for the morning, he was already late for school.
---
The classroom buzzed with chatter as usual. Satoru slipped in quietly, head low, sliding into his seat just as the teacher entered. His classmates barely glanced at him. Not out of rudeness—just habit. He was a fixture. Tired, quiet, bruised.
"Kojima," the teacher called after class.
Satoru approached the desk slowly.
"Your attendance is slipping. So are your grades. Everything okay at home?"
Satoru forced a smile. "Just some stuff with family. It'll settle."
The teacher didn't press. Just nodded and handed him a missed worksheet.
---
By sunset, he was on patrol again. His agency had kept him to mostly support work for now: scanning rooftops, monitoring minor disturbances, checking alleyways too small for big-name heroes to bother with.
Tonight, the wind felt sharp. It cut through his hoodie and stung his eyes as he pedaled from one shadow to another.
Near the edge of the shopping district, he stopped to rest. A kitten meowed from a drain. He crouched, offered it some of his sandwich. It sniffed him, then ate.
He smiled faintly. "Wish it was always this easy."
He looked up at the stars. Or tried to. City lights drowned most of them.
He didn't notice the time until his watch beeped—10:00 p.m. Curfew.
His eyes drooped. He stood, every muscle protesting, and mounted his bike again.
---
He got home well past eleven. The shop was dark, but clean. Keiko had come by. Probably stocked the shelves too.
He collapsed onto the futon in his room, half-dressed, too tired to change.
Tomorrow was his birthday. He'd forgotten until he saw the small sticky note on his nightstand: "Buy cake. —Keiko"
He stared at the note for a long while.
Then turned off the light.
No cake. No candles. No wish.
Just sleep.