1/5/2016
"Damnit!"
"I'm not too late. I can still save her!"
Rain trickled from the dark sky, soaking the pavement as the young man sprinted through the hospital's sliding doors. The world around him faded into silence, drowned by the pounding of his heartbeat.
"Mom!"
He rushed into the room. Her face, once warm and strong, now looked frail — etched with pain and exhaustion. The sight twisted his chest with fear.
"I got the cash, Mom!" he said, breathless. "It's okay now — you'll be okay!"
Clutching the damp envelope like a lifeline, he bolted down the hallway and slammed his hands onto the reception desk in front of the doctor.
"Doctor! This is enough, right? It's enough, isn't it!?"
His voice cracked, eyes wide with desperation. He trembled — not from the cold, but from the weight of everything he'd risked to get there. The doctor glanced at him, recognizing the panic written all over the boy's face.
"Easy, kid. Let's sit down. I'll make you some tea, and we'll talk it through-"
"I don't want tea! "I want my mom alive! Please — I'm begging you!"
The doctor sighed, realizing kindness alone wouldn't reach him. The boy's fear was too raw, too loud to be drowned by soft words.
"Listen, I'll do everything I can to help her, alright? But I need you to calm down. Come with me. Get off your feet — you look like you haven't slept in days."
Seeing the sincerity in the doctor's eyes — he finally relented. His shoulders slumped. He followed the doctor down the hall in silence, his soaked shoes squeaking with each step. Inside, his mind raced with fear, hope, and helplessness tangled into a storm he couldn't quiet.
"Have a seat, kid."
the doctor said gently, gesturing to a cushioned chair in his office.
"Can I get you a latte? Maybe a cappuccino?"
"You look like you could use something warm."
The young man shook his head and sank into the chair, his hands clenching the fabric of his jeans.
"Water… water's fine."
He stared at the floor, barely blinking. His leg bounced uncontrollably, each jitter a silent echo of the dread coiling in his chest. The doctor poured him a glass of water and set it down, then eased into the seat across from him.
For a moment, there was only the soft patter of rain against the window.
"I always thought rainy days like this were calming, The world slows down. Gets quieter. Gives you room to think."
The doctor said, trying to ease the tension. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"That money you brought… it's a lot. More than most could gather on short notice. I'm curious — how'd you manage it?"
The young man looked up slowly, his eyes sharp but weary. When he spoke, his voice was low — measured.
"That money is every sleepless night. Every hour spent working until my hands went numb. Every second I hated myself for not being faster. It's the blood and sweat I pushed past… because I couldn't watch her slip away."
...
"It's not much compared to what she's given me. But it's everything I had left."
The doctor went quiet. The rain tapped gently at the glass, like the world itself held its breath.
The doctor took a slow sip of his coffee, the steam curling between them as If a silent barrier. His eyes never left the young man seated across from him. There was something in the boy's expression — a fire born of suffering, of sacrifice. The doctor respected that. Hard workers carried a weight no one else could see.
"That sounds about right... But before we go any further, there's something you need to know. And I won't lie to you — it's not good."
"What is it?"
The doctor leaned forward, the weight of what he had to say pressing down on his shoulders.
"I'm sorry… but your mother's condition is irreversible. It's progressed too far, and all we can do now is ease her pain. There's no cure. No surgery. Nothing left to try."
The silence that followed was deafening.
The young man's heart sank like a stone. His fingers twitched against his knees.
"No… No, you don't get it."
He shot up from the chair, his voice rising — cracking under pressure.
"You have no idea how hard I worked to get that money!"
His hands curled into fists.
"I haven't slept in weeks. I took every job I could find — carrying bricks, scrubbing floors, anything! I dropped out of school for her!"
"And now you're telling me… it was all for nothing!?"
In a blur of rage and sorrow, he knocked over the chair, sending it clattering across the floor. His arms flung wildly — grabbing a stack of papers and hurling them into the air. A glass crashed against the wall, shattering into pieces. The couch tipped with a grunt of effort. Every breath he took felt like knives in his lungs.
The storm inside him had no words, only destruction.
The doctor sprang to his feet. Moving quickly, he grabbed the young man by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall. The boy thrashed at first, but the doctor's grip was firm—grounded.
"Enough!"
"I get it. I do. You're hurting. You're angry. But breaking everything won't bring her back."
The young man panted, his chest heaving as tears welled in his eyes. He looked up at the doctor, the fire dimming, drowned in sorrow.
The doctor loosened his grip, letting the silence speak for a moment.
"You have to be there for her."
"You don't have to fight anymore. Just… be her son."
The young man's body went still, the tension draining from his limbs as exhaustion and grief overtook rage. The doctor noticed the change immediately and stepped back, gently letting go of the boy's shoulders.
But before he could say another word, the young man bolted from the room.
His footsteps pounded against the sterile hospital floor, echoing through the empty hallways like thunder. He ran blindly, his mind a blur of panic and desperation. Startled nurses and patients turned their heads as he flew past, bumping shoulders and knocking over a tray without stopping. A few called out to him, but their voices didn't register.
He wasn't thinking. He was reaching — for hope, for something that still made sense.
He slammed through the door to his mother's room and froze.The lights inside were dim. The curtain rustled from the draft of his entrance.
There she lay, still and pale.
So fragile it looked like the sheets might crush her.
Tears filled his eyes instantly. He stumbled to her side, grabbing her hand in both of his. Her skin was warm, but too soft.
"Mom…"
"Wake up, Mom. Please… I brought you a surprise."
He forced a smile, trembling with effort.
"I got the money, remember? You said if I could get it, you'd be okay. So you have to wake up. You promised…"
The only response was the slow rise and fall of her chest — and the mechanical beep beside the bed.
His tears spilled freely now, dripping onto her hand as he gripped it tighter, as if his touch alone could will her back.
"Please… don't leave me. Not now. I still need you."
A long pause. Silence pressed down on the room.And then, Her eyelashes twitched.
He gasped, holding his breath as her lids slowly lifted. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, unfocused but alive.
"…Sweetheart?" she murmured, her voice dry and weak.
He let out a choked sob, laughter mixing with tears.
"I'm here, Mom. I'm right here."
Her frail hand trembled as it rose slowly from the bed. With effort, she brushed her fingers across her son's cheek, her touch barely more than a whisper. Her eyes, though dim and tired, held warmth and recognition.
"My son... You've grown up so much... I'm so proud of you…"
She smiled. It was weak, but real — tender like a faded photograph that still holds love after years of wear. Her son leaned in, hugging her gently, trying not to squeeze too tightly, afraid he might break her. His tears soaked into her hospital gown, his body shuddering with every sob.
She gasped, drawing shallow breaths, but mustered the strength to wrap one thin arm around him. Her hand rested shakily on his head, patting it like she used to when he was small — when things were simpler, when her arms were stronger.
"You're still the same little boy who cried when he scraped his knee... still clinging to me like the world might end."
she said with a chuckle, though it was barely more than a breath.
"So adorable..."
She leaned back slightly, though the motion drained her. Her fingers reached up again, wiping his tears away with a fragile thumb.
"Listen to me, sweetheart…"
Her voice quivered now, each word heavy, each breath a labor.
"I'm sorry… for everything I couldn't give you… for all the times you had to be strong, when it should've been me. But I want you to know something… I'm so, so grateful for you. I couldn't have asked for a better son. Not in this life or the next."
Her hand dropped, resting back on the blanket.
"You have to keep going. Do you hear me? You have to live… not just survive. For me—and especially for yourself. You still have a future ahead… something I never got the chance to finish. Don't let grief take that from you. Don't let it bury you."
She smiled again, a tired smile full of peace.
"And stop crying, or else… I'll come back and scold you."
she joked weakly.
"You always were too soft-hearted…"
Her eyelids drooped. Her breathing slowed.
"I'm tired now… I think… I'll sleep for a while…"
Her eyes closed, and this time they didn't open.
The room fell still.
The young man sat there, holding her hand tightly in both of his, tears trailing silently down his cheeks. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, the warmth already beginning to fade.
"…Good night, Mom."
he whispered.And though he tried to smile, his heart was breaking.
He stayed by her side for hours, never once letting go of her hand.
The pale light from the window shifted slowly across the floor as time slipped by. Machines beeped softly at first, steady and rhythmic, but even those sounds began to fade into silence. The young man remained motionless, eyes raw and swollen from sleepless nights and relentless tears. His body ached, but he didn't care. He didn't move.
He was guarding her.
Watching her.
Hoping that by simply being there, he could hold death at bay.
But deep down, he could feel it. Her breaths, once shallow but steady, had started to space out—longer pauses between each one. Each inhale grew weaker, thinner… wind slipping through a crack in a broken window.
He sat there, staring at her chest, hoping for it to raise again, but nothing happened.
"No... no, no…"
He stumbled forward, collapsing against her with a broken cry, wrapping his arms around her limp body. His sobs shook the stillness of the room, the sterile silence shattered by raw anguish.
"Please… don't go. Not yet…"
His voice cracked, lost in grief. The nurses didn't enter. Time itself seemed to freeze, giving him a few final moments alone with the one person who ever truly mattered.
"Don't leave me here, Mom…"
he clutched her tighter, burying his face into her neck as though she could still feel his warmth.
"I don't want to be alone… not again…"
The words spilled from him like broken glass — sharp, painful, and desperate. His tears soaked into her hospital gown, and he trembled as the weight of her absence pressed down on him, suffocating in its finality.
3/5/2016...
Three days later, alone in his dim apartment, he stares at the worn photo of his mother on the table. Rain taps softly against the window.
"Everyone keeps saying time will heal. But time hasn't healed anything. It's just... dragged me further into this emptiness."
"I gave up everything for her. My future. My sleep. My hope. And when I finally had enough to save her... it still wasn't enough."
"What's the point of trying so hard if the world takes everything anyway?"
"Now the silence is louder than ever. And I'm tired of pretending there's something worth waiting for on the other side of this pain."
"If she's gone… maybe I'm supposed to be too."
Gribbed by the crushing weight of depression, he stands on the edge of the balcony, teetering between despair and the final decision to end it all...
He stepped into the void, surrendering to the wind as if it could only He stepped into the void, surrendering to the wind as if it could decide his fate for him. Eyes closed, he embraced the fleeting sensation of weightlessness — freedom, at last, from the heaviness of his life.
"I feel... so free... finally free from this cruel world..."
But the darkness never came. Instead, warmth embraced him. When he opened his eyes, he wasn't broken on concrete.
He lay in a sun-drenched yard, lying among a sea of wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze, as though the earth itself had caught him in its arms. Not of the expected oblivion, warmth met his skin. The scent of blossoms filled his lungs. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the golden light. Around him, an endless field of flowers swayed like a living sea, vibrant and untouched, as if time itself had forgotten this place.
He pushed himself up, disoriented, the memory of falling still clinging to his limbs like a fading shadow. Turning in slow circles, he whispered into the quiet.
"Where am i?"
"Did i died?"
He scanned the horizon, searching — perhaps for a figure, a sign, anything to explain why the end had led him here instead of nowhere.
Something shifted. A figure stood in the distance, still as stone, half-lit by the soft glow that bathed the field. There was something hauntingly familiar in the way he stood — an echo, a shadow from another life.
His heart stirred. Did he know this person? Or was it just the shape of loneliness wearing a face he longed to remember? He couldn't tell. But the pull was undeniable.
He stepped forward, cautious, curious. The flowers parted like whispers beneath his feet, and the wind seemed to hush as he drew closer.
"Who is this guy?"
"... Hello?"
The figure didn't move, but something in the air changed — a ripple, a memory, maybe both. And suddenly, he wasn't sure if he was walking toward a stranger... or a forgotten part of himself.
The figure remained still, unmoving, as though carved from the quiet itself. He didn't turn around, yet his voice slipped into the air— calm, low, and strangely familiar, as if it echoed from inside the listener's own mind.
"Well… greetings, young man. Still drowning in sorrow, are we? Still aching from the loss?"
A pause, then a sigh that felt like it rustled the very petals beneath their feet.
"How tragic… how very human. But perhaps— just perhaps — I can offer you something. A thread of hope, frayed though it may be."
The wind stilled, holding its breath.
"You're not dead… not yet. But you stand at the edge. And I… I can give you one final chance. A choice. A door into another world, where someone you love might still be waiting to be saved…"
His brow furrowed, confusion washing over him like a slow tide. None of it made sense —the words, the place, the presence of the stranger who seemed to know too much.
"... You know about my mother?!"
He took a step forward.
"Who are you?!"
At last, the figure turned. Slowly, deliberately. And there — standing in the golden haze, wearing his face like a reflection cut from dream or nightmare — was himself.
"Well, someone had to give you the answer eventually, didn't i?"
"...Echo Virelith?"
The figure or can be said — himself replied with expressionless.
"You look like m-"
But before he could finish, something strange filled the air — thick, sweet, almost unnatural. The scent wrapped around him, heavy and dizzying. His knees buckled, the world spun — and everything went black...