The sign flipped to "Closed" ten minutes early, though the sky was still streaked with orange.
Inside the Kojima Flower Shop, silence settled in like dust. The kind that didn't feel peaceful—just heavy.
Miyako stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully gathering the day's receipts and stray petals. Her quiet humming had faded the moment she noticed Satoru wasn't moving.
He sat on the floor behind the till, still in his Mumen Rider gear except for the helmet, which rested by his side like a loyal dog. His notebook was open in his lap, the pages blank.
He hadn't written anything in twenty minutes.
Across the room, the refrigeration unit rattled again—a soft, sad cough from a machine trying too hard. The tulips near the window were starting to wilt.
Miyako gathered the last of the change, walked over, and gently placed it in the register. She paused.
"…You didn't water them," she said softly, nodding toward the flowers.
Satoru blinked like he'd forgotten they existed. "Oh. Right."
She hesitated, then crouched beside him. Not too close, but enough to be felt.
"I can do it," she offered.
He didn't answer. Just stared at the numbers he hadn't written, the thoughts he hadn't dared to face.
"I think we made just under 3,000 yen today," she said, trying to sound lighter. "That old lady with the sun hat bought a whole bouquet of white peonies. Said your mom used to pick the best ones."
"That's because she knew what people needed," Satoru murmured. "I'm just guessing."
"No," Miyako said, quietly. "You're doing more than guessing."
He didn't look at her, but she stayed anyway.
A moment later, the door opened, and Keiko stepped in, still in uniform, hair damp from drizzle. She looked between them—Satoru on the floor, Miyako crouched beside him—and let out a tired breath.
"You're still here?"
"I'm always here," Satoru replied.
"That's not a good thing," she said, and walked behind the counter, pulling out the small stool and dropping the account ledger on top.
"I'll do the math," Keiko said. "You take the break you keep promising to take."
"I don't need one."
Keiko raised an eyebrow.
Miyako looked between them, then stood, brushing off her apron. "I'll close up the backroom," she offered softly, and headed off without waiting for a reply.
Satoru sighed. "She's doing too much."
"She's helping because she wants to," Keiko said. "Not because you asked."
"I don't want her to feel responsible."
"She already does," Keiko said. "Same as me."
He finally stood, slowly, carefully. The weight of his armor dragged at his posture.
"The rent's late," he admitted.
Keiko didn't look surprised. "I know. I already called the landlord."
"You didn't—"
"I did," she interrupted gently. "I said we'd be a few days behind. I also said I'd help if we needed it."
Satoru clenched his jaw. "Keiko—"
"I know you don't want help," she said. "But you're going to need it. You're juggling hospital visits, patrols, the shop, and bills. Something's going to give."
"I don't want it to be the shop," he said. "She needs to come home to something still blooming."
"She will," Keiko replied. "But only if you're still blooming too."
He looked away.
Keiko stepped closer, placed a hand over his armored shoulder. "Let us help. Me. Miyako. Sayaka. We're not just watching you break yourself anymore."
From the backroom, the sound of running water stopped. Footsteps approached.
Miyako reappeared, holding a pitcher. "I watered the tulips."
Satoru finally looked up and gave her the smallest smile. "Thanks."
She flushed slightly. "They were drooping."
"…Yeah. I guess they were."
He turned back toward the window, where the last rays of light spilled across the flowers.
The shop might not survive forever.
But it was still standing. And so was he.