The hospital room was dim, the only light coming from the overcast sky outside and the faint hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead. The vase of flowers by the windowsill had begun to wilt, petals sagging like heavy eyelids. Satoru sat beside the bed, his hands folded tightly in his lap, barely moving.
His mother slept, her chest rising and falling with a shallow rhythm that made his own breaths slower, quieter. Her face was paler now. Her hair—once neatly pinned every morning—was tucked beneath a hospital-issued scarf.
But her hand was still warm in his.
He watched her sleep for a long time, unmoving. The world outside kept going. Cars. Voices. Footsteps in the corridor. All of it blurred into background static.
All that mattered was the rise and fall of her breath.
A quiet knock sounded.
He didn't look up. "It's open."
Nurse Sayaka Nakamura pushed the door open with her hip, carrying a clipboard and a steaming mug of something citrusy.
"You're here early," she said, glancing at the untouched chair by the window.
"I didn't leave," Satoru murmured.
She sighed and set the mug down on the small tray by the bed. "You know you can't keep doing this. You're not a full-time hospital staff."
"I'm her son," he said simply.
Sayaka didn't argue. She just crossed to the window and opened it slightly, letting in a breeze. The smell of rain-soaked concrete drifted in.
"She's stable. But she's going to need more rest. Maybe even rehab later. You understand that, right?"
"I do."
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just kept watching his mother's breathing.
Sayaka crouched beside him, peering up into his tired eyes. "And what about you? You've got dark circles the size of bruises under your eyes. You're limping. Your wrist's not healed. And you still haven't submitted your last check-in forms to Minato Base."
"I'll get to it."
Sayaka arched an eyebrow. "Kojima."
He finally looked at her.
Her voice softened. "You don't need to be invincible, you know."
"I'm not."
"Could've fooled me." She stood, brushing her coat sleeve. "Rest isn't weakness. It's proof you've been fighting."
Satoru looked down at his hand—still holding his mother's, as gently as he dared.
"I'm just… scared if I stop, everything will fall apart."
Sayaka exhaled. "Then let someone else hold it together for a minute."
They stood in silence for a while. The monitors beeped steadily. Outside, the first drops of rain began to tap the window.
Sayaka moved to leave. "Drink that tea. I even peeled the orange myself. Which I never do. That's how far your pity points go."
He cracked a faint smile. "Noted."
Before she left, she paused at the door. "There's talk, you know. About you."
Satoru tensed. "What kind of talk?"
"Good talk. Mostly. Some of the staff here saw you help that kid last week. People remember that sort of thing."
He shrugged. "I'm just doing what anyone would do."
"Funny," she said, pushing the door open, "no one else seems to be doing it."
When she left, the room grew quiet again.
Satoru sat back in the chair and finally took a sip of the tea. It was warm. Sharp. Bittersweet.
Like life.
His mother stirred a little in her sleep, lips twitching as if halfway through a dream.
He reached over and adjusted her blanket. Then he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed, hand still in hers.
He didn't cry. He didn't speak.
But for the first time in days, he allowed himself to close his eyes.