Without delay, as Ryo stumbles where he stands, there is a wind that catches him both from front to back, like hands to keep him upright. A warm wind, the same usual tinglyness, but more kind than anything that soaks in, pains.

There is many things that Hemla can share: that Potato has given them plenty, that there is no need to worry. And while the last of that does raise and linger in the air, instead, there is a firm, yet deeply heartful suggestion, that comings with the growing pampas-like grass at his back, a softening bed of grass around him:

Rest.

Perhaps there is somewhere better Ryo can go, but this late, and with him in the state he is, Hemla is more than welcome to accommodate him, as they are Potato.