Snow fell silently outside the hospital window. Inside, a seven-year-old boy pressed his fingers into the soft fur of a golden retriever and whispered, “I’m not afraid anymore.”
The room held its breath. A nurse froze mid-step, a doctor’s jaw tightened, and the clock ticked once—loud in the quiet.
The dog, Henry, nine years old with a graying muzzle, lay perfectly still beside him, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Warmth radiated from his side through the thin hospital sheets.
Lucas was small for the bed, bald from chemotherapy, trembling faintly. A knit winter cap sat folded on the bedside table, waiting. Christmas lights blinked weakly along the windowsill, donated and uneven, but their glow felt sacred in the stillness.
His mother stood near the window, coat on, shoulders tense, holding herself together with every ounce of will.
Lucas had not spoken like this all night. Not with calm. Not with certainty.
“I’m not afraid anymore,” he said again.
And for the first time in days, the weight of the hospital seemed lighter.
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