The bell above the shop door chimed softly.
Keiko looked up from the counter, her sleeves rolled high as she trimmed the thorns off a batch of roses. She was supposed to be on shift at the precinct in an hour, but she hadn't been able to leave the shop alone—not while Satoru was still recovering, and especially not with their mother in the hospital.
Miyako stood at the doorway, hands clasped nervously in front of her. She was wearing a pale yellow cardigan and clutching something wrapped in cloth.
"H-Hello," she said softly. "Sorry to bother you…"
Keiko blinked. "Oh. You're… Miyako, right?"
The girl nodded quickly. "I… um… I came to ask if you maybe need help. With the shop. Since… Kojima-senpai is—well, he's…"
She trailed off, eyes flitting to the empty stool behind the register.
Keiko arched an eyebrow. "You want to work here?"
Miyako looked mortified. "N-No! I mean—yes? Not like work, work! Just helping! I… like flowers. A lot. And I figured, if I'm going to be here anyway…"
She trailed off, pulling the wrapped object forward.
"I made this," she said, unwrapping it to reveal a small, handmade paper bouquet. Each bloom folded with obsessive care, each stem sturdy and balanced.
Keiko blinked, momentarily surprised by the craftsmanship.
"I just thought… maybe it could go in the window. Until real ones grow again."
Keiko stared at her for a long moment. The shop had been quiet for days. Customers still came—out of loyalty, or habit—but without Satoru, the place felt like it had lost its heartbeat.
"…Do you know how to water succulents?"
Miyako brightened. "Yes! And trim violets. And I can sweep. And I know which fertilizers are too acidic for daffodils."
Keiko finally allowed herself a tired smile.
"Well then. Guess I'd be stupid to say no."
---
Later that day, Satoru arrived home from a check-in at Minato Base, arm still wrapped up. He stepped through the door and paused when he saw her behind the counter, carefully arranging carnations.
Miyako startled. "O-Oh! You're home."
He blinked. "You're… working here?"
She flushed. "I'm just helping! Just until you're better."
He stared at the little paper bouquet on the windowsill, then back at her.
"…That one's yours?"
She nodded.
"It's nice," he said. "Really nice."
He started to say more—then thought better of it.
Instead, he walked over to the register, slowly, awkwardly, and leaned against the counter.
"You like flowers?"
"I love them," she said softly, looking down. "They're soft. Quiet. But they still bloom, even when no one's watching."
Satoru blinked.
For some reason, he felt that in his ribs.