A young girl with brown hair burst out of the hospital ward, sobbing uncontrollably. Her small frame shook as though her bones had splintered under the weight of grief. She ran blindly, her shoes slapping against the linoleum floor, her cries echoing down the corridor. Behind her, she left her father and aunt standing stiffly with the doctor, frozen in the aftermath of shattering news.
Her heart had broken into pieces—her mother was gone.
Glioblastoma had stolen her life.
Mira had clung to hope until the very end, whispering prayers into her pillow each night, desperate to see her mother smile again after surgery. She had imagined the warmth of her embrace, her soft voice assuring her that everything would be fine. But instead of recovery, there was silence. Instead of reunion, death had come.
"Mira! Mira!" her aunt Joy's voice cracked as panic took hold.
Her trembling hands reached for her older brother, Nick, who had just emerged from the ward beside the weary-looking doctor. Nick's face was pale, his expression torn between despair and the crushing duty of holding himself together for his daughter.
"Nick," Joy cried, her chest heaving, "I don't know where she's gone!"
"Which way?" Nick asked sharply, his grief buried beneath urgency.
Joy pointed with a shaking hand. "Down the right hallway. Toward the ground floor."
Nick didn't waste another second. He bolted down the hall, his long strides eating the distance, his heart hammering harder with every step.
Joy's throat tightened. Torn between chasing after her brother and seeking help, she turned to the doctor. "Is there any way we can check the CCTV cameras? Please—we have to find her!"
The doctor hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Follow me."
While they hurried toward the security room, Mira fled through the hospital like a bird with a broken wing.
Tears blurred her vision, turning faces into shadows. She collided with strangers—nurses balancing trays, visitors holding flowers, patients leaning on canes—but she didn't stop. She didn't hear the words of concern or irritation thrown after her. All she could hear was the silence where her mother's voice should have been.
She wanted only one thing. To see her again. To breathe in her scent of lavender and fresh linen. To hear her laugh, even once more. And if that wasn't possible, then maybe she wanted the world itself to stop.
Her feet carried her without thought. She turned a corner, slipped into a random room, and slammed the door behind her. Pressing her back against the wall, she struggled for breath. Her chest rose and fell in harsh gasps, her hands shaking as she clamped them over her mouth, muffling her sobs.
She wasn't aware of where she was—until she felt a heavy gaze on her.
Her head jerked up.
A boy lay on the bed, an IV attached to his arm. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, though a little disheveled, and his sharp eyes locked onto her with a mixture of irritation and disbelief. He looked older—fourteen, maybe fifteen—and his posture carried an air of authority too heavy for his age.
He had ordered his bodyguards to keep everyone away. Yet here was this little girl, bursting into his room, shattering his silence.
His lips parted, ready to demand she leave, but then he noticed the redness of her swollen eyes, the raw grief carved into her face. Something inside him stalled.
Mira startled when she realized she wasn't alone. "I—I'm so sorry!" she stammered. She stumbled backward, bumping into a medicine cabinet. The jolt rattled bottles inside, and before she could steady herself, her foot caught the leg of a stool. She pitched forward and fell flat on her face.
The boy exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. What on earth is this girl doing?
Burning with embarrassment, Mira scrambled to rise, but when she pushed on her elbow, pain flared. "Ow…" she whimpered.
The boy stared, torn between annoyance and something he couldn't quite name. Against his nature, he said, "Come here."
Mira froze. Her heart thudded. Did he mean me? What if—
"I said, come here," he repeated, his tone sharper this time.
Something in his voice made her obey. She crept toward him cautiously, clutching the hem of her dress.
For the first time, she noticed how striking he was. His features seemed sculpted, his eyes intense, his presence far too commanding for someone in a hospital bed.
Stop it, Mira. Now isn't the time.
Her grief surged again, swallowing her whole. Tears welled until they spilled over, and she broke down, sobbing harder than before.
The boy stiffened. He didn't know how to comfort people—no one had ever comforted him. Yet something about her trembling shoulders stirred something unfamiliar. Slowly, almost awkwardly, he tugged her onto the edge of his bed.
He said nothing. He simply let her cry, waiting as her sorrow poured out.
When at last her sobs quieted to hiccups, he spoke. "Are you done crying? Want to share your worries?"
He pressed a button, raising the head of the bed so he sat upright. His voice wasn't unkind, but it carried a firmness that commanded attention.
Mira sniffled, hesitating. But something about his calm presence made her speak. Her voice shook as she explained everything—her mother's illness, the months of fragile hope, and the devastating news she'd just heard.
The boy listened, his expression unreadable. When she fell silent, he asked, "What's your name?"
"Mirabelle," she whispered.
He hummed. "Mirabelle… A nice name. I'm Leonard. You can call me Leo."
His gaze softened. "I know it feels like you've lost the only person who truly understood you. But think—would your mom want you to give up? She left you with your dad and your aunt because she believed in your future. She wanted you to make her proud."
His words sank deep into Mira's fragile heart. She blinked at him, awe and confusion mingling, then without thinking, she threw her arms around him.
Leonard stiffened. He wasn't used to warmth. He wasn't used to being held. Yet he didn't push her away.
And then—
The door flew open with a bang.
"WHAT THE HECK?!" a voice screeched, shattering the fragile stillness