I woke up with my body heavy, as if every bone had been forced back into place. My arms ached, my chest still throbbed with a deep, persistent pain — a living reminder of the day before. Even with my eyes closed, the hospital's white light pressed through my eyelids, far too insistent for someone who only wanted to keep sleeping.
The constant hum of machines and the sharp scent of antiseptic pulled me back.
I took a slow breath.
The air came in with difficulty.
I was alive.
But I couldn't tell if that still meant anything.
I turned my head carefully. My mother was asleep in the plastic chair beside the bed, her body slumped, her head tilted to one side. Her face was marked — not by time, but by tears and sleepless nights. There was something painfully fragile about her in that moment.
I thought about waking her.
I thought about saying something.
I did nothing.
The part of me that had always observed the world from a distance was still there, intact, watching everything as if it were a film whose ending I already knew.
Then I felt it.
I didn't hear footsteps.
There was no sound at all.
Just that subtle shift in the air, as if the space itself had been touched by something that didn't obey the same rules.
The ghost was there.
My body reacted before my mind. My heart raced, my muscles tightened. I remained perfectly still, trying to decide whether any movement would mean accepting a permanent madness.
She approached carefully, different from the day before. Less excitement. More caution.
— I think… I should introduce myself properly — she said softly. — My name is Yumi.
I swallowed hard.
— And you are Henry — she continued. — I know… because your mother never stops talking about you.
There was a small smile on her lips. Not teasing. Almost shy.
— She says your name like she's trying to keep you here… using only words.
I didn't answer.
I just stared, trying to memorize every detail, as if that could prove she wasn't a side effect of medication or fever. The old-fashioned dress clashed with the artificial light of the room. Her deep eyes carried something far too ancient to belong there.
— Are you okay? — she asked. — I almost… almost hurt you.
I stayed silent.
Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe self-preservation. Silence was still the only thing keeping me in control.
She sighed.
— Sorry… I talk too much. It's been a long time since anyone listened to me.
The day passed without me noticing.
When night finally settled, her presence began to fade — not visually, but in sensation. As if she were growing distant.
— I have to go — she said quietly. — I can't stay when it gets too dark.
And then she was gone.
Three days passed.
Three days in which my body failed me more than usual. Shallow breathing. Burning lungs. Medication pushing me into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I was awake very little. And when I was, everything hurt.
She didn't appear.
I began to believe she had been nothing more than a hallucination. A creation of a mind too tired to tell reality from desire.
On the fourth day, something changed.
I felt the urge to leave the bed. Not out of hope. Out of habit. I took my notebook and pencil — as I always did — and dragged the IV stand with me into the garden. Every step demanded more effort than it should have.
The late afternoon bathed everything in gold. The air felt lighter.
And there she was.
In the same place.
Watching the same rose.
My heart raced.
She saw me and hurried toward me, stumbling over her words:
— I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I disappeared because I thought you had… — she took a breath — I was afraid.
I didn't answer.
She stopped in front of me. The smile faded. Her eyes filled with tears.
Then she began to cry.
A silent, restrained cry, almost ashamed.
It struck me.
Without a word, I walked to the bench and sat down. My exhausted body welcomed the rest.
A few seconds later, she sat beside me.
— I watched this flower grow — she said, staring at the rose. — I watched it bloom. Like all the trees here. I guess… it's my pastime. I can't go very far.
I opened my notebook and began to draw. The pencil moved slowly, capturing not just the shape of the flower, but the silence around it.
— It's been a long time since anyone spoke to me — she continued. — And even longer since someone listened.
I kept drawing. Just listening.
— At first, I watched people — she said. — I saw a couple live here. I saw children being born. I saw them grow. I saw parents age and die. Then I watched this place become a hospital.
She paused.
— Life kept going… and I didn't.
I nodded in silence.
— So I stopped looking — she confessed. — Because it hurt. I envied the living. Everything you can feel… even when you suffer.
The pencil hesitated for a moment.
I still didn't fully accept it. I still doubted. But something inside me opened — small and fragile — just enough to let her stay.
She sat closer, talking about plants, seasons, almost invisible changes that only someone who doesn't age can notice.
And there, between paper, flowers, and centuries of solitude, I realized something that frightened me more than ghosts:
Even at the edge of the end…
I was listening.
And I didn't want it to end.