Rain slicked the hospital windows. Thick gray clouds hung low, blurring the skyline. The world looked quieter when it cried.
Satoru stood in the elevator's reflection—helmet under his arm, rain dripping from the corners of his new armor. His scarf was damp. His eyes more so.
Sayaka had given him a towel at the door.
She didn't comment on the mud.
Didn't ask why he was limping.
Only said: "She's awake today."
---
Room 216.
He knocked lightly.
Inside, his mother sat propped up with extra pillows, an oxygen tube nestled gently at her nose. Her hair had thinned in the past month, and her face was paler now—but her eyes still crinkled when she smiled.
"Is that…?" she said, squinting. "Satoru?"
He stepped in.
Helmet under one arm. Goggles perched on his head. A small bouquet of hydrangeas in his free hand.
"I heard someone here likes flowers," he said.
His mother chuckled softly, reaching out. "So that's what they call you now?"
He blinked. "Huh?"
She pointed weakly at the small TV mounted near the ceiling. On the local news channel, a still photo of him mid-ride flashed across the screen, blurry but unmistakable.
> 'Mumen Rider—The Local Hero With No Powers, No Rest, and No Quit'
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess the name's catching on."
She took his hand, and hers felt feather-light against the calluses of his palm.
"It suits you," she said, eyes soft. "You've always kept pedaling. Even when the brakes failed."
He sat beside her, setting the flowers on the tray.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He nodded. "I'm still here."
"You always are," she whispered.
---
For a while, they just listened to the rain. Sayaka slipped in quietly, replaced the IV bag, then left with a nod.
His mother touched his armor where the seams met his shoulder.
"Don't let it harden you," she said. "This suit… it protects you. But don't let it hide you."
He swallowed hard.
"I won't."
She smiled. "Good. Because even if you fall… I'll remember how you stood."