The evening breeze tugged at my coat as I stepped out of the worn-down cafe I worked at, my fingers still stained with the scent of coffee and dish soap. Another long shift, another day pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. I adjusted my bag over my shoulder and began the slow walk back home.
The streets were dimly lit, with only a few flickering lamps to guide my way. Most of the shops were already closed, their metal shutters pulled down like tired eyes seeking rest. The moon hung low tonight, bright and watchful, almost as if it were following me. It reminded me of him... but I shook the thought away. It was too soon to think of him—that man.
Instead, my mind wandered, uninvited, to the memories that hurt the most. It had been three years already, but the pain of losing them still clung to me like a second skin. I could still remember the exact way my mother smiled before everything went dark. The way my father's voice broke when he tried to reassure us it would all be okay.
But it wasn't okay.
One car crash, one drunk driver, and my world shattered into pieces. Since then, it had just been me and Ezra—my little brother. He was only fifteen now, and sick. Too sick for someone his age. Each day felt like a battle, watching him grow weaker, while the bills stacked higher and the hope thinned like smoke.
I tried everything—working extra shifts, skipping meals, begging hospitals for payment plans. Nothing was ever enough. And no one ever cared.
A sharp gust of wind blew hair into my face, and I tucked it behind my ear with a tired sigh. My boots scraped against the pavement as I passed the old bookstore on the corner—the one we used to visit as kids. My chest ached.
Everything in my life felt like it was collapsing. I was barely holding it together, surviving on borrowed time and desperate prayers.
My feet kept moving, but my thoughts didn't. They stayed stuck somewhere between sorrow and exhaustion, like a record skipping on the same sad note. I wanted to cry, but the tears just wouldn't come anymore. Maybe I'd run out of them. Maybe grief had dried me out completely.
I tried to picture a future where things were better—where Ezra was healthy, and I wasn't working myself into an early grave. But that future always felt like a fairytale. One where someone had torn out the last few pages and tossed them into the fire.
I was so lost in my thoughts, I almost didn't feel the vibration in my pocket.
I paused and fumbled for my phone, pulling it out with numb fingers. An unknown number flashed on the screen. My heart skipped.
For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Scam calls were just one more cruel joke the world liked to throw at people like me. But something told me to answer.
"Hello?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Hello, is this Miss Liana Crestwell?"
My breath caught. "Yes, speaking."
"This is Ridgewood High School. I'm calling on behalf of the school nurse. Your brother, Ezra Crestwell, fainted during class and was rushed to Saint Elora's Hospital a few minutes ago."
Time stopped.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. My lips moved, but no sound came out.
The voice on the other end continued, calm and professional, unaware of how those words had just ripped me apart.
"He's being evaluated now. We advise you to come to the hospital immediately."
"I—I'll be there," I managed to choke out before ending the call.
The street around me blurred. The cold air stung my face, but I didn't feel it. My legs moved on instinct, faster and faster until I was running, my bag thumping against my back, breath coming out in short, panicked gasps.
I had feared this day. Hoped it wouldn't come. Begged every invisible power above to spare my brother just a little longer.
But now it was here. Ezra had collapsed.
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The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear.
I pushed open the double doors of Saint Elora's and nearly stumbled into the reception desk, breathless and shaken. The nurse behind the counter looked up, startled, but I didn't give her time to speak.
"My brother—Ezra Crestwell. He was brought in a few minutes ago," I said, barely managing to string the words together.
The nurse typed something quickly, then pointed down the hall. "Room 304. He's in the observation wing."
I didn't say thank you. I couldn't. I was already running again, my boots echoing down the sterile hallway, past nurses and quiet rooms filled with soft beeping and hushed whispers.
Room 304. My hand hesitated on the handle for half a second before I pushed the door open.
There he was. Ezra.
Pale as the sheets he lay on, an oxygen mask over his face, his fragile chest rising and falling like the wings of a dying bird. A nurse stood beside him, adjusting the IV line in his arm.
I walked in slowly, my heart breaking with every step. I sat beside him, grabbing his hand. It was cold. Too cold.
"Ezra…" I whispered, brushing his hair away from his forehead. He didn't respond.
"He's stable for now," came a voice from behind me. I turned to see a man in a white coat enter the room, holding a clipboard.
"Are you his sister?"
"Yes," I said, standing. "Is he going to be okay?"
The doctor's eyes met mine—steady, but tired. The kind of tired you only see in people who've had to deliver too many bad news in a single day.
"He has a tumor in his heart," he said, straight to the point. "We suspected it during a previous check-up, but now it's clear. It's grown significantly. That's what caused him to collapse."
I couldn't breathe.
"A tumor?" I repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it less real. "In his heart?"
The doctor nodded. "It's in a delicate position. If we don't operate soon, it could be fatal."
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Then operate. Please. Do it."
He sighed. "We will. But it's a complicated surgery, and we'll need to bring in a specialist. The cost will be high—likely over eight million. And that doesn't include post-surgery care or medication."
Eight million.
The number slammed into me like a truck. I almost laughed. Not because it was funny—but because it was impossible.
"I…I don't have that kind of money," I said weakly, feeling the walls close in.
"I understand," he said gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You can speak with the billing department about payment options, but I must be honest—it's a race against time. The sooner we do it, the better his chances."
He left the room, letting the silence return.
I sat back down, tears finally slipping down my cheeks as I stared at my little brother. My only family. My reason for breathing.
Eight million.
It might as well have been a billion.
I didn't have hope anymore. But maybe—I needed something else.