The bell above the flower shop door jingled softly.
Satoru, wearing his apron over a long-sleeve shirt to hide the gauze on his arm, looked up from the tulips he was trimming.
A pair of elderly women entered, chatting in low tones. One of them glanced at him, then nudged her friend with a subtle grin.
"That's him," she whispered.
Satoru pretended not to hear. He offered a polite nod. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"
"We're just looking, dear," the friend replied with a smirk that said otherwise.
They meandered through the aisles, murmuring about carnations and chrysanthemums, but their eyes kept flicking back to him. Satoru didn't flinch, but the back of his neck prickled.
It had been like this more often lately. Ever since the public learned about the "Helmet Hero" who had saved a family from a fire, pulled a couple from a mugging, stopped a truck crash before it reached a crosswalk. His name was never spoken aloud. But more and more people had started looking at him differently.
Pretending not to know.
Pretending it wasn't obvious.
He couldn't decide if it made him feel proud or exposed.
A young delivery boy came in, holding a box of preserved blue roses.
"Delivery for Kojima-san," the boy announced.
Satoru signed for it.
As the boy turned to leave, he hesitated. "Hey, uh… my little sister… she said to tell you thank you. For the video. I mean—if you're not him, then never mind. Just… thanks anyway."
He left in a rush.
Satoru stood still for a moment, blue roses in hand.
He didn't smile. But he didn't frown either.
---
That evening, the shop door clicked again. An old man stepped in, using a cane and wearing a faded coat.
He looked around with a weary gaze, then approached the counter.
"I need lilies. The white kind."
"For a grave?" Satoru asked gently.
The man nodded. "Wife's birthday."
Satoru moved with quiet efficiency. Wrapped the bouquet himself. No words exchanged for a long while.
When he handed it over, the man stared at him. Not suspiciously—just directly.
"You know," the old man said, "I've seen a lot of boys your age run from pain. From trouble. Not many run into it."
Satoru blinked. "Sir?"
"You're not fooling anyone, son. But you don't have to say anything." He took the bouquet with one hand, leaned on his cane with the other. "Foolish, what you're doing. Brave, too. But mostly foolish."
There was something like admiration in his voice. Or maybe resignation.
"But I guess the world needs fools like you."
Satoru swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thanks for the business."
The old man chuckled and left.
---
That night, when Satoru returned home, the flower shop dark behind him, Keiko was already waiting by the kotatsu with warm tea and rice bowls.
"More people asking about Helmet Guy?" she asked, voice dry.
Satoru pulled off his jacket and sat down with a grunt. His ribs still ached.
"They don't say it outright," he muttered. "But yeah."
She stirred her rice. "You okay with that?"
He thought about the old man, the boy, the whispers.
"I think so," he said.
Keiko nodded. "You're still an idiot."
"I know."
They ate quietly, warm light pooling around them, the world soft outside their window.