The rooftop of the old public library wasn't much. Just a few concrete benches, some potted shrubs someone kept forgetting to water, and a tired-looking vending machine humming beside a rusted railing. But it was quiet, and most people didn't bother climbing three flights of stairs just to sit in silence.
That's why Satoru Kojima liked it.
He leaned back on the bench, arms folded, his patched-up jacket slung beside him. His arm still twinged from the last mission—he wasn't supposed to be lifting anything heavier than a textbook. Not that he listened.
His helmet sat beside his foot, half-covered by a drawstring bag. He looked older these days. Or maybe just more tired.
A shadow fell over the steps.
Satoru turned, only a little surprised.
"…Miyako?"
She stood awkwardly at the top of the stairs, hair fluttering slightly in the breeze, fingers clutching the straps of her school bag. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not," he said, sitting up. "This spot's open to everyone."
She hesitated, then took a few steps forward. "I figured you might be here."
Satoru blinked. "You were… looking for me?"
Her cheeks flushed. "Not like that. I just—saw your bike parked nearby."
He smiled. "That's fair."
Miyako sat, not too close, not too far. She pulled something from her bag—an awkward, hand-sized potted plant, small and leafy, with a single bud peeking out.
"I grew this," she said, placing it carefully on the ground between them. "It's stubborn. Refuses to bloom unless the sun's exactly right."
Satoru tilted his head. "Sounds like someone I know."
She gave a half-smile, still looking down. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just bad at raising things."
"You brought it all the way here?"
Miyako nodded. "I thought… maybe it'd do better if someone else had it."
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at the little green stem swaying in the breeze.
"I'll take care of it," he said at last. "Promise."
Miyako shifted, digging through her bag again.
She pulled out a small bento box—handmade, with a clumsy little sticker on the lid—and held it out, her hands trembling slightly.
"I made too much."
He took it gently. "Thanks."
"It's not fancy. And I'm not… good at this." Her words tumbled fast now. "I just thought maybe you hadn't eaten. Not that I know your schedule, or anything, I just—"
Satoru opened the box.
Rolled egg. Rice with sesame. Fried tofu.
Warm. Careful. Human.
He picked up a piece of tofu with his fingers and popped it into his mouth.
"…You're wrong."
She blinked. "Huh?"
"You're good at this."
Her mouth opened, then closed again.
They sat in silence. The kind that wasn't uncomfortable—just quiet. Shared.
The sun started to dip behind the buildings. The vending machine clicked.
"I saw the footage from the river," she said, barely audible. "The way you pulled that man from the water."
Satoru didn't respond.
"I knew it was you. I think we all did."
Still, he said nothing.
She looked away. "You never say it. But you don't have to. Everyone knows. Even if they don't say it either."
He let out a breath. "Maybe I just don't want it to change things."
"It won't," she said. Then added, softer: "At least not for me."
She stood, dusting off her skirt, and pulled out one last thing from her sleeve—a tiny folded paper charm, barely an inch long.
"For protection," she said. "Just… keep it in your bag or something."
He took it carefully. "Thanks."
Miyako nodded, turning toward the stairwell.
"Oh," she added without facing him, "and… you don't have to keep pretending to stand alone."
Then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the stairs.
Satoru looked at the charm in his palm, then at the stubborn little plant still swaying in the breeze.
For the first time in a long while, he smiled without needing to.