A silence louder than thunder echoed through the whitewashed office, its pristine sterility pressing down like a suffocating blanket.
Willow Larkspur sat frozen, her eyes locked on the screen as the doctor pointed to sections of her brain. His words floated through the air like meaningless static, unintelligible, detached from reality.
She blinked slowly. For minutes, she stared blankly, trying to grasp even a shred of what he was saying. And then—laughter burst from her lips. A sudden, sharp sound that didn't belong there. It made the doctor pause, his brows furrowing, his eyes flashing with concern.
She knew she looked absurd. But she couldn't help it. After all these years—fighting, striving, sacrificing—this was her reward?
She had tried so hard to build a life worth living. Carefully, quietly, diligently shaping herself into something… someone. And this? This was how it ended?
The doctor continued explaining, his voice now more measured, almost hesitant. She still reached for the test result, hands trembling slightly though she smiled. She read through it again, slowly this time. Surely there had been a mistake. But the words on the page didn't change.
The truth stared back, sharp and brutal. No typos. No errors. Just her fate written in cold, clinical terms.
She placed the paper gently on the doctor's table, as though if she handled it delicately enough, it would vanish. She looked up at him, expression unreadable.
"Miss Willow?" Dr. Andrew called, gently.
"All these mean… I am dying soon, right?" she asked, her smile fixed in place like it had been stitched on.
Dr. Andrew's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Miss Willow, I know it's not easy, and whatever we're talking about might come to you as a shock, but you need to calm down." His voice was calm but laced with a quiet urgency.
"I am calm. I don't just understand medical stuff. They're always kinda hard to understand," Willow replied, her smile still in place, too bright, too steady.
"What I'm saying is... you have glioblastoma multiforme," he said, pausing carefully, "and you only have about three months left."
The room felt colder suddenly. As though someone had opened a window and let winter sweep through her bones.
"Is there any cure, like chemotherapy? Or maybe anything?" Willow asked. Her voice remained eerily steady, her face an unreadable mask.
Each question fell from her lips like a routine inquiry. There was no tremor, no emotion—just words. She wasn't speaking like someone who had been told they were dying. It was as if she was gathering information for a school project, or asking on behalf of a distant friend.
"Unfortunately, there's no definitive cure. Treatments like chemotherapy or radiation may slow it down, but they won't stop it. I'm very sorry," Dr. Andrew said, the weight of regret hanging heavy in his tone.
"Is this kind of hereditary?" Willow asked again, her voice soft but clear.
"No. Glioblastomas typically aren't inherited. It's something that develops gradually," Dr. Andrew replied.
Willow's lips twitched upward again, but this time the smile was empty. "The heavens must be angry at me," she whispered. "Or maybe I've lived for too long," she added, her voice cracking just slightly at the end.
"How old are you, Miss Willow?" Dr. Andrew asked.
"Twenty-eight," she said, and smiled again. A gentle, tired smile.
Dr. Andrew looked at her, not just with the eyes of a physician, but with something almost paternal. She was so young. And yet, dying.
"So what are the symptoms of this sickness?" Willow asked, her curiosity sounding strange in the context. Detached.
"In the early stages, it often starts with persistent headaches that gradually worsen. Some patients begin to lose their vision or experience double vision. There may also be confusion, difficulty concentrating, memory loss, and subtle personality changes. As it progresses, symptoms like nausea, seizures, and weakness on one side of the body become more common." Dr. Andrew explained patiently.
"So I will feel all this in three months?" she asked with another smile—this one more ironic than anything.
"Yes. And it might be severe depending on the individual," Dr. Andrew said, shifting forward in his seat, "but no matter what, you need to take care of yourself. Just because the test results said three months doesn't necessarily mean you will die in three months. Some cases… the patients live for more than three years. I believe miracles can happen…"
His voice drifted slightly. He wasn't sure if she was listening. She wasn't reacting the way he expected. There were no tears, no panic. Just smiles. The kind that worried him.
Patients who cry are easier, he thought. They grieve. They accept. But this… this is dangerous.
"Miracle?" Willow repeated, her voice low. "I'm not that lucky for a miracle to happen to me," she said with a bitter smile. "Doctor, in your years of practice, how many miracles have you seen?"
Dr. Andrew fell quiet. He'd been a doctor for twenty-two years. And true miracles? Not more than one.
"Cut… where's the camera?" Willow asked with a light laugh, glancing around the room.
"What do you mean, Miss Willow… are you okay?" Dr. Andrew stood abruptly, alarm flickering in his eyes.
"I'm okay. Just thought we're in a skit and this is not funny," she said and shook her head, still smiling, still pretending this was all some elaborate prank.
"You need to take it easy," Dr. Andrew said, voice soft and cautious.
Willow nodded repeatedly. "I understand," she said and stood up. "I will take my leave now."
"Miss Willow, remember to use the drugs prescribed to you, so it can suppress the symptoms," Dr. Andrew reminded.
She nodded once more, collected her test results and her bag, and walked out of the office.
As she moved through the hospital hallway, the sterile white lights blurred. She looked at the other patients lining the walls, some in wheelchairs, others asleep with IV lines. She smiled.
Maybe someday soon, I'll be here too, she thought. Or maybe… I'll just disappear.
Outside, a crowd had gathered at the building's entrance. Their faces tilted upward.
On the rooftop, a woman threatened to jump. Chaos rippled through the onlookers. Gasps. Shouts. Pleas.
Willow stood at the edge of the crowd and looked up, squinting. Her gaze was steady, unmoved.
Some people don't value what they have, she thought. And then she turned to leave, her face blank.
Not because she was heartless. No, it wasn't that. She just… didn't care anymore. Maybe she never did. Maybe the heavens were punishing her for not being good, but not exactly bad either. Just… empty.
—
She arrived at her apartment—small, neat, and quiet.
She took a long bath. It was Sunday, her only day off.
She cooked. Something simple. Sat in front of the TV, eating slowly, watching a comedy show. She smiled. Laughed even.
Her phone buzzed. She reached into her bag and her fingers brushed against the test result. She looked at it and smiled again. A strange, lonely smile.
"Hello," Willow said as she answered the call.
"I'm at your estate gate. The security won't let me in… if you don't come out now, I will cause a scene…" a man's voice rang from the phone.
She sighed and ended the call. Her smile never faltered.
At the gate, she met him.
"Mr. Larkspur," she greeted with a smile.
"You ungrateful daughter. You live in such a nice place and you refuse to take care of me?" Mr. Larkspur, her father, spat bitterly.
"Willow, you know your father is getting older. You should treat him with some respect," Rachael, her stepmother, added with practiced sorrow.
"Am I not being respectful now?" Willow asked sweetly.
"You really are the worst daughter any father could have. How can you treat me this way? I took care of you for years and this is how you repay me?" Mr. Larkspur bellowed.
"What do you want?" Willow asked, unbothered, as if she'd rehearsed this script countless times before.
"Money. Your sister Maple was arrested. We need money to bail her," he said.
"My mother gave birth to just me. What do you mean by 'my sister'?" Willow's smile deepened, sharp enough to cut.
"You…" Mr. Larkspur was too furious to speak.
"Calm down, don't be so worked up," Willow said soothingly, running her hand across her chest in mock concern.
"Willow, can you please help your sister? She's been there for days now. We need to bail her," Rachael begged.
"I remember I cut ties with this family four years ago. I don't understand why you're here now," Willow replied, her tone light.
"Is family a thread you can cut?" Mr. Larkspur snapped. "Do you think a family tie is something you can sever with a few millions?"
"And I remember you've never earned that kind of money in your life," Willow said calmly, watching his face twist.
Rachael fell to her knees. "Willow, please. Just help your sister this time. I beg of you."
"You don't need to do this," Willow said. Mr. Larkspur helped his wife up as Willow tapped her phone.
"I sent you $100,000. This should be enough."
Mr. Larkspur checked his phone. His eyes widened.
"You really sent the money?" he asked, shocked. She hadn't given him a cent in years—no matter how much he begged, threatened, or caused scenes.
She nodded. "The next time you come here, I'll make sure your daughter is the one looking for your bail," she added, walking away.
Back in her apartment, she stared at her account balance.
All that work… all the years. What was it for?
"I was thinking of buying a house next year. But I can't even finish this year," she said with a small pout, pretending to act cute though no one was watching.
The TV caught her attention.
"The second son of the Smith family is getting married to the young lady of the Montclair family…"
Two powerful names. Titans of Country N. The Smiths ruled at the top. The Clouds followed. The Montclairs just beneath.
A perfect match. A perfect marriage.
Willow stared at the screen for a moment… then burst into laughter. Loud and unrestrained.
As if she'd just found her reason to live again.
She turned off the TV, a strange light in her eyes.