The flower shop smelled like lavender and steam, but the cash drawer was empty.
Satoru blinked at the receipt book in his hand, realizing—again—he hadn't logged yesterday's sales. Or maybe it was the day before. The pages blurred together.
Behind him, the cooler hummed softly. The lilies inside were wilting.
It was 10:47 p.m.
He was still in uniform—mud-streaked boots, agency jacket slung over the counter chair, helmet hanging by its strap. His backpack lay untouched near the register, schoolbooks still sealed inside.
He rubbed his eyes and reached for the mop. The floor hadn't been cleaned. Again.
A sharp rap broke through the silence.
He turned.
Keiko stood outside the glass door, her arms folded, her keys jangling in one hand. She tilted her head and gave him a look that walked the line between exasperation and worry.
He shuffled over and unlocked the door.
"You forgot to close up," she said.
"I was just about to—"
"You weren't."
She stepped inside, slipping off her shoes with the practiced grace of someone who'd grown up behind that counter. The flower shop was as much hers as it was their mother's—and by extension, his. But lately, it felt like he was the only one ever there.
Keiko set her bag on the table and pulled out a bento box wrapped in a faded cloth.
"I stopped by because I knew you'd forget to eat. Again."
"I'm fine," Satoru mumbled, but he was already unwrapping the box.
Inside: grilled mackerel, tamagoyaki, rice with umeboshi. Still warm. Keiko always knew how to pack it just the way he liked.
"You're not fine," she said gently, sitting on the counter's edge. "You're running yourself into the ground."
"I'm managing."
"Barely."
He didn't argue.
Keiko glanced toward the back room. "Did you visit Mom today?"
Satoru hesitated. "I was going to."
"Uh-huh." She sighed. "She asked about you. Said she hadn't seen you in almost a week. I didn't have the heart to tell her you've just been… here. Doing everything and nothing."
He ate quietly for a while. The rice stuck in his throat more than usual.
"She's stable, right?"
"For now," Keiko said. "But you know what she worries about the most? Not herself. You."
He lowered his chopsticks.
"You're falling asleep in class. You missed dinner with me last night. You forgot to lock the store. You haven't cleaned. And I bet you haven't slept more than four hours in a week."
"I can still do it," he said quietly. "The patrols. The school stuff. The shop. All of it."
"That's not the point," she said, voice suddenly sharper. "You're acting like if you just keep moving, none of it will fall apart. But Satoru, you're not a wall. You're still a kid."
He flinched at that, just slightly.
"I'm not—"
"You are," she said, softer now. "You're seventeen. And you're trying to carry the world like you're forty."
The silence hung heavy between them.
Keiko slid off the counter, walked over, and touched his shoulder gently.
"You don't have to break just to prove you're strong."
He didn't respond.
After a moment, she took his empty bento box, packed it away, and turned to leave.
"I'll check on Mom tomorrow," she said. "You should get some real sleep tonight. That's what she'd want. And so do I."
She paused at the door.
"You can't protect everyone if you forget to protect yourself, you know."
The door closed behind her.
Satoru stood in the quiet, hands still trembling.
Behind him, the lilies had wilted completely.