"The Secret Garden," I murmured. "I used to read it under the table when I was little."
Noah nodded like he understood something important. "Mary Lennox," he said, sealing the first vial. "Lonely girl. Locked away. Finds a place that grows."
I stared at him. "You've read it?"
He gave a faint shrug. "Sisters. I used to read whatever they left lying around."
Another vial clicked into place. The sound was soft, but it echoed in my ears. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath.
"Do you still read?" I asked. I don't know why. The words just slipped out like they were trying to chase the moment.
He paused for a second. "Not much. But I should. You know, it's strange," he continued, sliding the last vial onto the tray, "how a book like that could mean everything to a child like you."
"Like me?"
"Someone who didn't grow up in a garden."
He was right. I had grown up in a fortress. One where love was transactional and affection was rationed like medicine.
"Mary brought her garden back to life," I said. "I always liked that she could change something. Make it bloom."
Noah smiled again—small, but different this time. Less clinical. "I think you're already doing that. In your own way."
The needle came out. Pressure. Gauze. Tape. I didn't feel any of it.
"I just survive," I said. My voice was hollow. Honest.
"That counts too," he said, without skipping a beat.
Clover mewed softly and pawed at his hand. He reached out and let her sniff his fingers. She approved, apparently.
He rose to his feet, placing the tray back on the table.
"I'll make sure she stays," he said, nodding at Clover. "Technically, pets aren't allowed in this wing. But technically, a lot of things aren't allowed that happen anyway."
My eyes widened slightly. Was that a joke?
He walked to the door. Paused.
"You should read something new," he added, his hand on the handle. "You might be surprised what you find."
The door clicked softly behind him, and I was left in the silence. But it wasn't the same silence anymore.
I looked down at my arm, the gauze still pressed over the tiny puncture. A piece of me taken. Again. But for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel empty after.
I looked at Clover. "Did that just happen?"
She purred and stretched out, her paws tucked under her chin like a little loaf of rebellion.
I pulled the blanket over both of us and reached for the book tucked beneath my pillow. The Secret Garden. Pages worn, spine soft with years. I didn't open it. I just held it.
And for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to read something new.
____
I stared at the space where Noah had just been, the faint scent of antiseptic and something sharper—clean, like rain on concrete—still lingering in the room. His voice, calm and unexpectedly warm, echoed in my head: "The Secret Garden, huh?" Who would have guessed he'd ask about my favorite book while sticking a needle into my arm?
Clover leapt from the corner of my bed, her soft paws pressing into my thigh before curling up in my lap. Her warmth settled me, grounding me in the moment. I ran my fingers gently between her ears. Her purr rumbled against my legs like a small engine, content and safe. I envied her.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence folded over me again, heavy like a blanket soaked through with regret. The kind that clings to your skin and doesn't let go.
I hadn't expected the conversation. I hadn't expected the smile. But most of all, I hadn't expected the look in his eyes when I answered him, hesitant but honest. People didn't usually listen to my answers—they asked things because they felt they had to, not because they wanted to know. But Noah… he had paused.
I shifted on the bed and reached for my sketchpad instinctively before stopping myself. No. Not today. Today didn't feel like a sketching day. Today felt like something was shifting beneath the surface, and I didn't know if I wanted to press on the cracks or let them mend on their own.
Instead, I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and leaned against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. I could hear muffled voices outside—nurses talking in clipped tones, the wheels of a cart squeaking down the hallway. Hospital sounds. Predictable. Repetitive. Like the tick of a clock in a room you never leave.
A soft knock broke through the rhythm.
I didn't answer. I barely moved.
The door creaked open anyway, slow and hesitant. For a second, I thought it might be Noah again. But then I heard the familiar whisper of cheap bracelets clinking and the unmistakable scent of strawberry gum.
"Psst. Elena."
June.
Clover perked up, tail twitching, and leapt to the floor as June slipped into the room, holding a plastic bag close to her chest like it was contraband—which, in a way, it probably was.
"Shhh," she whispered dramatically, glancing behind her before closing the door with her hip. "I had to sneak past two nurses and a grumpy old man in a gown just to get here."
She tossed the bag onto my lap and grinned. "Snacks. Real snacks. Not whatever flavorless foam they serve in this place."
I blinked at her, startled by the sudden burst of life in the room. "You could get kicked out for that."
June flopped onto the edge of my bed like she owned the place. "Worth it."
Inside the bag were things I hadn't even realized I missed—gummy bears, spicy chips, a soda I hadn't had since last year. My throat tightened. I didn't know what to say.
June didn't seem to expect a thank you. She grabbed the soda, popped the cap, and handed it to me before reaching down to scoop Clover into her arms.