The smell of grilled fish and soy sauce filled the house.
Satoru peeked out from his room. The living room table was dressed up for once—plates laid out, chopsticks neatly aligned, a small cake box resting off to the side. Their mom stood in front of the stove, sleeves rolled up, wiping her forehead.
"What's going on?" he asked quietly.
Keiko leaned in the doorway, beaming.
"I passed the final exam," she said. "I'm officially a rookie now."
Satoru blinked. "Police?"
She flicked the side of his head. "No, the circus. Of course police."
Their mom turned around, wiping her hands. "Come help set the table, Satoru. It's a big day."
He stepped into the room, a little awkward, but smiled. Something about the way Keiko stood—proud, but also relieved—made his chest feel light.
---
They ate together for the first time in what felt like weeks.
Keiko shared stories about training. How the instructors yelled but meant well. How one girl cried during her first patrol sim. How her new boots were too tight.
Their mom laughed at all the right moments, but her laughter ended in coughs. Satoru kept his eyes on her glass of water, making sure it was full.
After dessert, Keiko pulled a thin black box from her jacket.
"I want you to see it first," she said, holding it out to Satoru.
Inside was a polished silver badge with the prefectural emblem engraved at the top.
Satoru touched the metal lightly. "It's heavy."
She nodded. "It's supposed to be."
---
Later that night, he stood on the balcony while Keiko smoked a victory cigarette beside him.
She offered him one, half-joking.
He shook his head. "Not my thing."
"Smart."
They stood in silence for a while.
"You serious about all that training?" she asked suddenly.
Satoru looked at his scraped knuckles. "Yeah."
"Even if you don't get into U.A.?"
He nodded. "It's not about the school. I just want to be ready. For anything."
She leaned back against the railing, staring up at the sky.
"I used to think being strong meant not being afraid," she said. "But that's bullshit. Everyone's scared. Especially the good ones."
Satoru tilted his head. "You scared?"
"Every damn day."
She nudged his shoulder. "But I still show up. That's what matters."
He didn't answer. He just stood beside her, watching the stars.
---
The next morning, she left early for orientation. Their mom slept in—exhausted, pale.
Satoru made her tea and watered the shop's morning stock. The tulips needed more light. He rotated the displays so they wouldn't wilt.
Then, before school, he added a new entry to his notebook:
> "Keiko's badge: looks heavy. Maybe that's the point."
And below that:
> "Everyone's scared. Show up anyway."
He slipped the notebook into his bag and left for class, the smell of tea and cut stems lingering in his jacket.