The room smelled of antiseptic and fear.
White light poured through the window—cold, unforgiving.
My mother sat beside the bed, trying to smile. Her red, swollen eyes betrayed how much she had cried when she thought I wasn't looking. She talked too much—rushed, desperate words about hope, about fighting, about miracles. I felt nothing.
Only exhaustion.
A deep, aching exhaustion that hurt more than any symptom.
The doctor entered. Clipboard in hand, steps slow, expression far too serious for someone so young. I sat up, watching his every movement as if it were a distant performance, detached from me somehow. He flipped through papers, inhaled deeply, then spoke.
"Henry… the tests… your cancer…"
He paused, weighing each word, as if careful language could soften the impossible.
"You have… three months. At most."
My mother sobbed. She grabbed my hand as though she could pull me back into the world, as if love could rewrite the hard math of illness. I squeezed her hand in return—without emotion. Just pressure. Nothing else.
I didn't cry.
I didn't speak.
I stood up, grabbed my notebook, and walked toward the door.
"Henry…" my mother called, her voice breaking. "Please… please… it won't be like this…"
I didn't look back.
I walked through the cold hospital corridors, my steps long and silent. Every heartbeat reminded me I was alive—and how little I wanted to be.
The garden lay ahead. Quiet. Cold.
The air felt lighter there, as if the world breathed differently. The flowers seemed to breathe with me.
I sat on the farthest bench, resting the notebook on my lap. The pages were blank. The pencil didn't move. I didn't want to draw today.
So I just looked.
That was when I noticed her.
She stood among the flowers, perfectly still, gazing at a rose. There was no rush in her movements—only pure attention. Every gesture was calm, deliberate, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. She looked as though she belonged there, as if the garden had grown her.
Her dress was old-fashioned—heavy, elegant—catching the morning light in a way that felt unreal. Long black hair fell smoothly around her shoulders, framing a face too delicate to be real. And her eyes…
Deep. Almost translucent. Filled with an ancient sadness that made my breath catch.
I watched her for minutes. Every movement felt sacred. Every glance at the flower carried quiet reverence. There was too much beauty there—pure and unreachable.
A beauty that made me feel alive, even while my body ached from wanting to give up.
Curiosity overcame apathy.
I stood slowly, careful not to make a sound. I walked through the flowers, each step measured, each breath heavy, reminding me how fragile my lungs had become. I stopped beside her.
She hadn't noticed me.
"Hey…" I murmured, my voice barely there. "Are you okay? What… what happened to the flower?"
She looked up at me suddenly.
And something in the way she looked made my stomach turn cold.
"You…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You can see me?"
I frowned, confused. For a moment, I thought she was joking. She stepped closer—and without realizing it, passed her hand through my chest.
Cold exploded through me.
Air vanished from my lungs. My heart raced. My legs shook.
"What…?" I stammered, stumbling back, nearly tripping over a stone.
She tilted her head sadly, eyes locked on mine.
"Try to touch me."
Fear surged through me—raw, instinctive. Something inside screamed for me to run.
So I did.
I ran through the garden, trampling flowers, my chest burning with every step. She chased after me, laughing softly—excited, fascinated by her own discovery. With every turn, every hedge, my heart felt ready to burst. My lungs couldn't keep up. Each breath was pain.
I burst into the hospital corridors, panic driving me forward. People stared as if I were insane. I didn't care. I just needed distance—from the impossible thing following me.
I rushed into the elevator and slammed the button for my floor. The doors closed with a soft click, bringing brief relief.
Then I saw her.
She passed through the elevator doors as if they were made of air.
My eyes widened. My body went cold. My heart raced faster than before—each beat sharp with pain. My lungs begged for oxygen.
I couldn't breathe.
I collapsed to the floor, gasping, clawing at the air that refused to come.
The world darkened.
The last thing I heard was her laughter, echoing softly, before everything went black.
I woke beneath harsh lights and humming machines. Doctors hovered over me, hands pressing against my chest, voices blurring into noise I couldn't understand. Every cable, every monitor reminded me of how fragile I was.
Then—
My eyes found hers.
She stood beside the bed, wide Asian eyes shining with curiosity. Dark hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. Pale skin reflected the light like porcelain. Every feature was delicate, flawless.
Her lips curved into a playful smile—though the sadness in her eyes never fully faded.
"Talking won't help," she said softly, amused. "They'll think you're crazy. Only you can see me."
My heart still raced. My body trembled. My lungs burned.
I didn't know whether to feel fear, awe, or confusion.
But I couldn't look away.
She was too beautiful. Every detail—every quiet gesture, every expression—held me frozen, unsure whether this was a dream, a nightmare, or something impossibly rare.
And there, surrounded by machines and worried doctors, Henry realized that for the first time in months, something had awakened inside him.
Something beyond apathy.
Something he couldn't explain.
Something he didn't want to understand.
Something that made him feel—perhaps for the first time in a very long while—that there was still beauty left in the world.