Rain beat softly against the windows. Satoru sat at the table, his left arm limp at his side. His thumb, still bruised from last week, refused to grip his pencil properly. He kept trying anyway.
Three strokes. Pause. Cramp. Shake it out.
He switched to his right hand and resumed copying from a rescue manual titled Field First Aid for Collapsed Zones. His handwriting slanted awkwardly, but he didn't stop.
Each line was effort. Each word, a decision.
---
At school, he drifted through the hallways in a daze. His backpack hung heavier than usual—half full of books the school didn't assign.
He failed a pop quiz in math. His homeroom teacher sighed, tapping his desk with a pen.
"Kojima, I know you're quiet, but this is your third failing grade this month."
Satoru nodded. "Sorry."
"Anything going on at home?"
He shook his head.
The teacher stared at him a moment longer, then moved on. That was it.
No questions. No help. Just dismissal.
---
That night, his muscles cramped halfway through his sit-ups. He collapsed on the mat, sweat pooling around his collarbone, and curled up from the ache.
He lay there for a while. It was the first time he thought about stopping.
Not quitting forever. Just… skipping a day.
His notebook sat open nearby. Yesterday's entry stared back at him:
> "No excuses. Even 1% is better than 0."
He groaned, dragged himself up by the shelf, and resumed with planks.
Shaking. Struggling. Silent.
---
The flower shop felt heavier these days. His mom had been coughing more—longer, rougher. She waved it off, said it was the weather. But Satoru noticed how she moved slower.
One customer knocked over a vase. Water splashed across the counter. Before his mom could bend down, Satoru was already there with a towel.
She ruffled his hair afterward.
"You're more helpful than I give you credit for."
He smiled, tired.
---
The library staff began recognizing him. They didn't ask questions, but they began placing books aside—ones about disaster relief, safety coordination, disaster law.
He thanked them quietly, bowed his head, and took them home like sacred texts.
In his room, he created flashcards from memory:
> "Shock symptoms" "Fire escape procedures" "Signs of internal bleeding"
His brain felt overloaded most nights. But he couldn't shake the need to know more.
---
Keiko stopped him one evening.
She'd just come back from patrol training—hair tied, uniform smudged with dirt. "You've been a ghost lately."
Satoru looked up from his notes. "Just busy."
"You're not sleeping. Your grades are dropping. You think I don't notice?"
He hesitated. "I just want to be ready."
"For what?"
He didn't answer.
She sighed, sat beside him.
"I admire it. I do. But don't burn the whole candle at once."
He didn't reply.
But that night, he slept with his window open. Let the wind cool him. It felt like breathing again.
---
The bruises on his arms were fading slowly.
In his notebook, he logged:
> "Pain level: 3/10. Energy: 5/10. Confidence: still low, but better than before."
Then he paused.
Under that, he wrote in larger letters:
> "Not getting better. Just not quitting."
And he circled it.
Not a motto.
A fact.