Being cared for so attentively while unable to move on his own—Haruto couldn't deny it had its own strange kind of comfort.
After lying in bed for a full half month, his frail body had only just regained enough strength to make the smallest of movements. Anything too strenuous was still beyond him, but at least now he could lift his arms a little. He had his mother fetch some books from his apartment, and in the quiet of the ward, he would spend his idle hours reading until fatigue overcame him and he drifted back to sleep.
Unlike an ordinary hospital room, this was a private suite designed for high-profile patients. It had everything: a private bath, a sofa, a television—almost like a miniature apartment. The cost of staying there was anything but cheap, but fortunately, the party responsible for the accident was covering the bills, sparing Haruto the financial burden.
"Yes, I've woken up. For now, all I can do is read. I can't even get out of bed yet—it'll take more time before I'm strong enough to be discharged. Once I'm out of the hospital, I'll come see you."
Click—
The door to the ward opened. Futaba stepped in, carrying drinks. She placed a bottle of green juice on the table beside the bed, then set one on Haruto's nightstand.
The moment his mother entered, Haruto's voice dropped slightly in volume.
"Let's leave it at that. I'll talk to you tonight."
Ending his call with Mito Yuka, Haruto looked toward his mother. Meeting her steady gaze made him feel oddly awkward, so he offered her a faint smile. Futaba's response, however, was a perfectly flat expression.
"Another girl?"
"Uh… yes."
"Every day, it's girls who call you. I know you're popular, but popularity isn't everything. You still need to understand dignity and self-respect. Keeping in touch with so many girls at once—have you thought about how Setsuna must feel?"
Chided by his mother, Haruto could only nod meekly. With most people, he could brush it off or argue back, but with Futaba, he didn't dare.
"And what's going on with you and Setsuna, anyway? These past few weeks, the two of you don't seem… very close. Did something happen between you?"
Indeed, Setsuna had visited on weekends or after school, but whenever she came, her mood seemed subdued. Their interactions no longer carried the warmth of a young couple in love.
No—if anything, they resembled a married couple worn down by years of fatigue.
Futaba recalled a time when her own relationship with Toshiki had been strained. He had been consumed with election work, rarely home, and even when he was, his mood was perpetually heavy. Though she understood the stress he was under, she couldn't help but feel weighed down by his gloom.
Even Mitsuha had once been frightened to tears by his expression. It was only after that incident that Toshiki began to rein in his emotions at home, and little by little, their relationship softened again.
"Nothing happened. I think she's just worried because of what happened to me. I've been reflecting… on the two of us."
"The two of you?"
Haruto glanced toward the window, where the sunlight stung his eyes, then lowered his gaze back to the white sheets covering his body.
"No, it's nothing."
Even as his mother, Futaba often found herself unable to understand what her son was really thinking. He had been like that since childhood—always hard to read, always harboring secrets.
Toshiki, too, had often spoken of it: Haruto was a child full of thoughts, yet when the two of them actually sat down face to face, not a word of it ever came out.
The relationship between father and son could not be called bad, but neither was it close. That distance had always left Futaba Miyamizu faintly uneasy.
"Have you thought about the future?" she asked one day.
"When I've recovered enough, I'll return to school and continue studying. I'll aim for a good university. Then, I'll marry Setsuna. That's the plan."
"…Haruto, have you thought seriously about children with Setsuna?"
The sudden change in topic startled him. Haruto turned his gaze toward his mother, unsure why she had brought it up so abruptly. Glancing down at the folds of the bedsheet, for a fleeting moment he even wondered if the doctors were concealing something from him.
"Why bring that up now?"
"No particular reason. Just… if you've already decided on marriage, then naturally, children will be part of that picture."
"I… I'll think about it after graduating high school. Maybe in University."
That day was still clear in his memory—but he didn't know how to put it into words for his mother. After a pause, he simply gave the answer he had already planned out for himself.
But plans, he reflected bitterly, never kept up with reality.
It might not even take until University—by the time he finished high school, his mother might already be holding a grandchild.
"University, huh?" Futaba murmured.
"Yeah."
Silence settled over the room again. There were many things Futaba wanted to tell her son, but for reasons she couldn't quite name, she held her tongue. After a long stillness, she decided it was better to wait.
Haruto's private lessons had already been missed for two months, now November. But Tsubota, the tutor he had spoken with earlier, already knew the circumstances and showed understanding. The time away wouldn't count against him. That, at least, was a relief.
"Take care of your body. Get well soon," Tsubota told him.
Haruto thanked him and, with nothing else to do, spent his free hours rereading books, reinforcing his memory of what he had studied.
When he tired, his eyes would drift to the flowers at his bedside.
They had been sent by someone he didn't know. The bouquet was handed to the nurses, then passed along to him. From the very time he had been unconscious, they had arrived.
Every day, without fail—a single wild chrysanthemum.
He often wondered who was sending them, but the sender never showed their face. Their identity remained shrouded in mystery.
Time passed slowly. Days in the hospital had little color—an endless cycle of IV drips and medication. His mood seldom lifted. The aftereffects of the accident plagued him still, making sleep elusive, not helped by the side effects of the drugs.
By mid-November, his condition finally began to improve. The prescriptions lessened. After a thorough examination, the doctor confirmed his state was steadily recovering. Another month, perhaps, and he could be discharged.
"Another month?" Haruto asked, suppressing a sigh.
"The earlier estimate was only rough," the doctor said. "But given how you're healing, you can almost stand on your own. Still, for safety's sake, better to rest a little longer."
"Hardly news that cheers me up."
"Most people would be happy hearing they'll soon recover. Only children who hate school pout at news like this," the doctor replied dryly.
"But for adults, recovery doesn't just mean returning to school. It means facing the pile of troubles waiting outside the hospital."
"…Interesting answer."
The doctor jotted something in her notes. Haruto guessed it was part of her observation log.
Takemi Tae lifted her head, glancing at him with sharp, piercing eyes. Many of her patients were fascinating in their own ways, but Haruto stood out among them—rumor had it he was a writer, even as a high schooler.
A high school novelist—an unusual identity, and certainly one worth watching.
She finished her notes, then turned and left the room. Haruto let out a small breath as the spiky, intimidating figure disappeared through the door.
That first time he had seen her, she had seemed more like a musician from a visual-kei rock band than a doctor. Yet, over the past month, he had learned her personality wasn't nearly as harsh as her appearance suggested. Not warm, exactly—but calm, attentive, and unexpectedly gentle in her own way.
Today, Futaba was absent, having gone to meet a friend she had once seen in Tokyo. When Haruto asked about that person, his mother dodged the question, leaving him curious. But with no answers forthcoming, he could only keep the curiosity quietly in his chest.
Though alone, Haruto now had regained enough strength for small movements, and the nurses checked in frequently enough that he wasn't troubled.
He picked up the book he had left on his nightstand, slipped the bookmark from between its pages, and continued reading:
'I'm not joking. I don't know why, but whenever I see her, I can't help feeling she'll someday become a heavy burden on me. Take you, for example—if you really like her, keep watching her carefully, and you'll feel the same.'
Komako rested her hand on Shimamura's shoulder, leaning close. Then she shook her head suddenly. 'No… if it were someone like you, maybe she wouldn't go mad. Here—why don't you take this burden for me?'
'Don't say things like that.'
'Do you think I'm drunk? Whenever I imagine her being cherished by you, while I rot away in these mountains living recklessly… that's the only thing that eases me.'
'Hey!'
'Leave me alone!' Komako cried, rushing away and bumping hard into the eaves of the house—her house.
Turning the pages, Haruto felt again the gap between himself and the true masters of literature. He couldn't help comparing himself, wondering what set him apart.
No matter how he looked at it, there was a vast difference.
"They write about life—but it's more than just life."
Perhaps simplicity was the right word. Meanwhile, his own writing still relied on clumsy, ornate language, straining for effect, using gilded words to cover what was lacking at the core.
Before the accident, he hadn't thought much about it. But that moment—the car rushing toward him, the sharp clarity of despair—it still lingered vividly in his memory, forcing him to reconsider everything.
What had once been mere leisure reading now became something deeper. With fresh eyes, he saw his inadequacies and wondered if he truly had the right to write at all.
"Modern entertainment might numb the pain," he thought, "but what am I really doing? Chasing prizes, desperate to prove myself—if one of my clumsy works actually won, it would be an insult to those who polish their craft with care."
He knew, of course, that the world was not ruled by fairness. Other forces were always at play.
But now, more than ever, he longed to write something better.
"In the presence of literary masters, one must approach with the heart of an apprentice."
Just as he set his thoughts down, the chime of the phone rang beside him. Haruto slipped the bookmark between the pages and answered.
"Is this Mr. Miyamizu from room 608, ?" came the receptionist's voice. "You have a visitor requesting to see you."
"A visitor?"
In this high-grade private ward, the service was meticulous. Visitors were never allowed up without first confirming with the patient.
"It's the one who's been sending flowers every day."
Haruto's eyes flicked to the wild chrysanthemum on the nightstand. Surprise stirred in him—he had assumed the mysterious benefactor intended to remain hidden forever.
"…Let them come."
"Yes, sir."
The line clicked off. Setting the receiver down, Haruto closed his book and waited, curiosity rising in his chest.
Because of the hospital's strict procedures, nearly ten minutes passed before footsteps approached in the hall.
"Mr. Miyamizu," a nurse called at the door. "May we come in?"
"Come in."
The door opened. Guided by the nurse, a short-haired girl entered, carrying a single flower in her hands. She bowed deeply to him.
"Thank you—for saving me that day."
As she lifted her face, Haruto saw a clear, striking beauty. Her aura was pure, transparent—somewhat reminiscent of Mito Yuka, yet distinctly different.
"My name is Asakura Tōru," she said.
~~~~~~~~~~
You can support me by subscribing on Patreon and read up to 10 chapters ahead.
patreon.com/Ranabir_20