The hospital ceiling was too white.
Too bright.
It almost hummed when I stared at it for too long.
I blinked slowly, letting the cold air of the room settle against my skin. The faint beeping beside my bed reminded me that I was still here—still breathing, still waking up to a world I had left in such a rush.
Then suddenly—
Darkness.
Not the frightening kind, but the soft kind. The kind that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. I floated in it, weightless, as if the world outside had forgotten I existed.
Sometimes I heard voices.
Sometimes I didn’t.
A slow beeping echoed from far away, like someone gently tapping on a door, trying to remind me of something important. My name drifted through the dark now and then, spoken in different tones—worried, trembling, hopeful.
“Ottilie… please wake up… please. You have to live… live for me.”
That voice.
That broken, trembling voice pleading for me to wake up.
I knew it was him.
Suddenly, a thin thread of light broke through the darkness. It wasn’t bright—but it was warm. It reached toward me like a hand. I could feel it—his large hand gripping mine, as if he were holding me to this world, refusing to let me slip away.
It took time for the memories to return. Not all at once, but in fragments—like shattered glass slowly finding its shape again.
The rain.
Running footsteps.
The shock of cold air against my face.
And then… nothing.
It was a snow day.
Laughter filled Granny Katerina as everyone enjoyed themselves, their voices warm and lively. Ivan stood nearby, recording them through his camera. He glanced toward the window and sighed softly.
“So exhausting,” he thought.
Outside, the town was alive—covered in white, glowing softly beneath the pale sky.
“The town is full of life,” he whispered to himself.
“Ivan!” a loud voice called.
He turned to see a boy with black hair wearing an apron. It was his friend, Lev Morozov.
“Can you bring some firewood for the fireplace?” Lev asked, glancing toward the door.
“Okay,” Ivan mumbled.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Snow was falling heavily.
As he looked to his right, something caught his attention—a blurry figure in the distance.
“Who…?” he thought.
Raising his camera, he zoomed in.
Ivan’s eyes widened.
A girl.
She was making a snowman, laughing and playing alone like a child. The wind blew through her long, silky brown hair.
“Pretty,” was the first thought that crossed his mind.
Lost in the moment, he didn’t notice when she looked up—straight toward him. Her luminous green eyes met his through the distance, pulling him in before he could look away.
For a brief second, they held eye contact.
Something softened in Ivan’s expression. Slowly, he lowered the camera.
“Ivan!” Lev shouted again.
“Oh shit—the firewood!” Ivan muttered, startled.
“Coming!” he yelled, rushing inside with the wood in his arms.
On the other side of the yard, the girl felt a chill run down her spine. She glanced toward the place where she thought someone had been watching.
Only a blur remained.
Then, the morning sun rose, and the snow began to melt.
Drip. Drip.
Water droplets fell softly from the rooftops.
“Huff—cough!”
“Ahem!”
I coughed weakly, my chest tightening as the cold caught up with me.
“Oh, Ottilie,” my mother, Adle, said worriedly. “I told you not to stay outside for too long.”
“Yes, you did,” I replied softly, glancing at her. “But it was more fun outside, Mom.”
“Please don’t overexert yourself,” she said gently, her eyes full of worry.
“Hachoo!”
“I want to do what makes me happy, Mom,” I said quietly. “This is my last wish.”
She fell silent.
“…Okay,” she finally whispered. “Do as you wish, honey.”
I looked at the heater in the corner of the room, its faint orange glow flickering softly against the walls. Warmth slowly filled the space, chasing the cold from my fingers.
“You have a hospital appointment today, remember?” Mom said. “Get dressed before it’s late.”
“Alright, Mom,” I murmured.
Our eyes met—hers filled with worry and gentleness. Mine… perhaps dull. Maybe lifeless.
I smiled anyway.
An hour later, I stepped outside where Mom was waiting. I slid into the car, pulling the door shut as a rush of cold air followed me inside. My breath fogged instantly, fading in the warmth of the heater.
The seat was cold, and I tucked my hands into my sleeves while Mom adjusted the mirrors.
“You ready?” she asked, smiling softly.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
The engine hummed as we drove off. Snowflakes drifted past the windows, clinging for a moment before melting away. The world outside was quiet, washed in silver and white.
The windows fogged from the inside, turning everything into a blur. I rested my forehead against the cool glass, watching the scenery pass by in slow motion.
Bare trees lined the road, their branches heavy with snow. Streetlights glowed faintly through the falling flakes, making the world feel like it was trapped inside a snow globe.
Mom kept both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the slippery road. The heater hummed softly, filling the car with warmth that made my cold cheeks tingle.
“You okay back there?” she asked gently.
I nodded.
“Yeah… it’s pretty,” I murmured.
She smiled.
“Snow always makes everything quiet,” she said. “Like the world slows down for a moment.”
I breathed a foggy circle onto the window and traced a small heart in the center.
Outside, the wind swept snow across the road—but inside the car felt safe. Warm.
Like a small shelter moving through winter.
We reached the hospital.
Cold air rushed toward me as I stepped out of the car, slipping through the thin layers of my clothes and settling deep into my bones. I drew in a slow breath, lifting my eyes to the tall, pale structure before me. The hospital stood silently, its windows reflecting the dull winter sky, giving it a distant, unwelcoming look. Everything felt too quiet—as if even the air understood that this was a place where hope was tested.
Mom stepped out after me, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have. She adjusted her shawl, wrapping it tightly around herself, and glanced at me with a look meant to be reassuring—though worry still lingered in her eyes. I pretended not to notice and turned my attention toward the entrance, where people moved in and out with hurried steps and lowered voices.
The wind brushed past us, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic from inside. I hugged my arms around myself, unsure whether I was shivering from the cold or from the heaviness pressing against my chest. Standing just a few steps away from the automatic doors, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something life-changing—something I wasn’t ready to face, yet had no choice but to walk into.
Even though I already knew my life was limited to a year, something fragile—something like hope—still clung to me.
The doors slid open, and I stepped inside. They closed behind me with a soft mechanical sigh. Warm air rushed over my skin, carrying the sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with something faintly metallic. The sudden change in temperature made me pause, as if my body needed time to adjust—not only to the warmth, but to the reality of where I was.
The hospital lobby stretched before me, bright lights reflecting off the polished floor. Footsteps echoed in uneven rhythms, nurses passed with quiet urgency, and distant voices blended into a constant hum. I tightened my grip on my bag, feeling smaller beneath the weight of the place. Somewhere within these walls, answers waited for me—answers I feared and hoped for at the same time.
Mom stepped beside me and slipped her hand into mine, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Are you cold?” she asked quietly, careful not to disturb the silence.
I shook my head, though I wasn’t sure it was true. “No… just a little nervous.”
She offered a small smile. “That’s normal. Hospitals do that to everyone.”
We walked toward the reception desk, our reflections stretching across the shiny floor. After a moment, Mom spoke again.
“Whatever happens today, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone.”
My throat tightened. I nodded, holding her hand a little tighter as we moved deeper into the hospital, carrying both fear and hope with us.
After an hour of waiting, my name was finally called.
My heart skipped a beat as I stood from the cold plastic chair. My legs felt heavier than they should have, as if the wait itself had drained all my strength.
Mom stood immediately. “It’s okay,” she whispered, though worry filled her eyes.
We followed the nurse down a long corridor where the lights were too bright and the walls too white. Each step echoed, counting down to something I wasn’t ready to hear.
We stopped in front of a closed door. The nurse gestured for us to go in and walked away, leaving us alone with our thoughts.
The doctor looked up from his desk and gave us a polite, professional smile. He asked us to sit. As I lowered myself into the chair, my hands trembled slightly. The room smelled faintly of medicine and paper, and the silence before he spoke felt louder than any noise outside.
I took a deep breath.
Then it happened again.
The doctor’s voice was calm, practiced—like he had spoken these words many times before. I listened as if he were talking to someone else, my hands clenched tightly in my lap. With every sentence, the room seemed to shrink.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “The tests confirm it’s brain cancer.”
The word echoed inside my head, heavy and unreal. I turned to my mother. Her face had gone pale, her lips trembling as she tried to stay strong for me.
“There is treatment,” the doctor continued carefully, “but we need to be honest. The time is limited.”
“How long?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He paused. “About nine months.”
Nine months.
The number settled into the room like a silent storm. My mother’s grip tightened around my hand, and I felt her turn away, unable to hide her tears. I stared at the floor, trying to understand how a life could be measured in months—how the future I had imagined could suddenly become so small.
And yet, beneath the fear, a quiet thought formed.
If my time was limited, then every moment from now on had to matter.
When we left the doctor’s room, the truth followed us like a shadow. Nothing had changed. Brain cancer. Nine months.
The automatic doors slid open, and cold air rushed toward us again, sharper than before. It brushed against my face, but I barely noticed. My mind was still trapped in that quiet room, replaying the doctor’s words again and again.
Mom walked beside me in silence, her steps slow and careful, as if she feared I might break. When we reached the car, she paused and rested her hand on my back.
“We’ll make every day count,” she said softly, her voice trembling.
I nodded, lifting my eyes to the pale sky above the hospital. Nine months—a number too small to hold a lifetime of dreams.
As the engine started and the hospital faded behind us, the truth stayed with me, settling quietly in my chest. Time was no longer something I could take for granted.
I knew one thing for certain.
I wanted my nine months to be happy.
If time had decided to be cruel, then I refused to spend what remained in fear. I wanted laughter where I could find it, warmth in small moments, and memories brighter than the pain. If my life was measured in months, then I would fill those months with meaning—with love, light, and reasons to smile.
After a long silence, I finally spoke.
“Mom… you should go back to work. I’ll go home by myself.”
She looked at me in shock. “Are you sure?” she asked softly.
I nodded, forcing a small smile. “I’ll be fine. I just need some time… to think.”
She hesitated, studying my face, then slowly nodded. “Okay. Just… be careful, alright?”
“I will.”
She hugged me tightly, longer than usual, as if trying to memorize me in that moment. Then she stepped back, wiped her eyes, and walked toward her car.
I watched her leave, the sound of the engine fading until only silence remained. The taillights blinked softly against the gray sky, growing smaller with every second—until they disappeared.
As I stood there alone, a strange emptiness settled in my chest.
But beneath it, something else lived too.
Resolve.The hospital ceiling was too white.
Too bright.
It almost hummed when I stared at it for too long.
I blinked slowly, letting the cold air of the room settle against my skin. The faint beeping beside my bed reminded me that I was still here—still breathing, still waking up to a world I had left in such a rush.
Then suddenly—
Darkness.
Not the frightening kind, but the soft kind. The kind that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. I floated in it, weightless, as if the world outside had forgotten I existed.
Sometimes I heard voices.
Sometimes I didn’t.
A slow beeping echoed from far away, like someone gently tapping on a door, trying to remind me of something important. My name drifted through the dark now and then, spoken in different tones—worried, trembling, hopeful.
“Ottilie… please wake up… please. You have to live… live for me.”
That voice.
That broken, trembling voice pleading for me to wake up.
I knew it was him.
Suddenly, a thin thread of light broke through the darkness. It wasn’t bright—but it was warm. It reached toward me like a hand. I could feel it—his large hand gripping mine, as if he were holding me to this world, refusing to let me slip away.
It took time for the memories to return. Not all at once, but in fragments—like shattered glass slowly finding its shape again.
The rain.
Running footsteps.
The shock of cold air against my face.
And then… nothing.
It was a snow day.
Laughter filled Granny Katerina as everyone enjoyed themselves, their voices warm and lively. Ivan stood nearby, recording them through his camera. He glanced toward the window and sighed softly.
“So exhausting,” he thought.
Outside, the town was alive—covered in white, glowing softly beneath the pale sky.
“The town is full of life,” he whispered to himself.
“Ivan!” a loud voice called.
He turned to see a boy with black hair wearing an apron. It was his friend, Lev Morozov.
“Can you bring some firewood for the fireplace?” Lev asked, glancing toward the door.
“Okay,” Ivan mumbled.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Snow was falling heavily.
As he looked to his right, something caught his attention—a blurry figure in the distance.
“Who…?” he thought.
Raising his camera, he zoomed in.
Ivan’s eyes widened.
A girl.
She was making a snowman, laughing and playing alone like a child. The wind blew through her long, silky brown hair.
“Pretty,” was the first thought that crossed his mind.
Lost in the moment, he didn’t notice when she looked up—straight toward him. Her luminous green eyes met his through the distance, pulling him in before he could look away.
For a brief second, they held eye contact.
Something softened in Ivan’s expression. Slowly, he lowered the camera.
“Ivan!” Lev shouted again.
“Oh shit—the firewood!” Ivan muttered, startled.
“Coming!” he yelled, rushing inside with the wood in his arms.
On the other side of the yard, the girl felt a chill run down her spine. She glanced toward the place where she thought someone had been watching.
Only a blur remained.
