Chapter 4 CHAPTER 4

Ethan Hartley.

As soon as I leave the hospital, a taxi appears at the corner. I signal, get in, and give my home address. I rest my head against the window and let my eyes wander over the city. New York is still the same: buildings pressed together, people in a hurry, and young people laughing on the sidewalks.

I wish I were among them—just another ordinary face, without hospitals or medication.

Even with the cancer still at stage one, my mother barely lets me go out. The most I manage is going to the library. Even then, she’s constantly sending messages, wanting to know if I’m back already, if I’m eating properly, and if I didn’t get too tired.

She doesn’t understand that I can still do everything—I just need to follow the treatment and watch my diet. I avoid arguing; stress is bad, and I already have enough worries.

I could have stayed at the restaurant. I was still able to work, but she insisted that I quit when the cancer came back. The owner ended up not rehiring me after I got better. Today, I depend on my father’s salary and his faith.

He works double shifts to pay for the treatment. He says it isn’t a sacrifice, that he just wants to see me well. He doesn’t show much of what he feels, but I know he worries. Unlike my mother, he believes I should live, laugh, and go out—not stay trapped by the disease.

The taxi driver pulls me back to reality.

"We’re here, young man."

I pay the fare, thank him, and stand still for a few seconds in front of my house.

It looks even bigger today—modern lines, a light-colored façade, wide windows letting golden light spill outside, and that touch of wood that always gives me a sense of warmth.

My gaze drops to the garden. The neatly aligned plants, the vibrant green, the stone paths… everything exactly as I left it.

Taking care of that garden is one of the few things that truly calms me.

Besides drawing and admiring art, working the soil, pruning the leaves, and watching everything grow… it makes me feel part of something beautiful.

I take a deep breath, admiring my work for a moment.

My home.

My small refuge.

Then I finally go inside. As soon as I close the door, my mother appears as if out of thin air.

"How was the appointment? It’s nothing serious, right? Did it get worse? Did the doctor say anything?" The questions come all at once, and I feel dizzy.

"Easy, Mom. Breathe."

She inhales deeply, her hands trembling. I wait for her to calm down before answering.

"Everything’s under control. The tumor is still at stage one. The doctor said it’s not serious, but I need to follow the treatment properly and avoid the same foods as always."

I show her the envelope with the test results.

"He just asked me to be careful, because if it grows and reaches stage two, it could advance straight to stage four."

Her eyes fill with tears.

"So it’s still okay, thank God."

She hugs me tightly, as if she could keep the disease from moving.

I return the hug, letting my body relax a little.

"It’s going to be okay, Mom. I promise I’m taking care of myself."

She lets go slowly, fixes her hair, and tries to smile, but the worry is still in her eyes.

And deep down, I know it: no matter what she says, she still sees me as that sixteen-year-old boy who almost died.

My mother sighs, her gaze tired but loving.

"All right. Go take a shower, and get those hospital clothes off. I’ll prepare something for you to eat. Try to rest a bit, okay?"

She kisses my forehead and heads to the kitchen while I watch her slow steps.

I give a small smile and go upstairs to my bedroom. The room is spacious and cozy, in neutral tones, with a large, neatly made bed, heavy curtains filtering the light, and soft lighting that gives everything a sense of rest.

The TV mounted on the wall completes the room, always on some channel to keep me company on the quietest days.

In the corner, my drawing desk—my refuge. Between the laptop, a few stacked books, and small keepsakes resting on the lit shelf, that’s where time seems to stop.

And sometimes I think that if it really did stop… maybe I’d have a little more time for everything I still want to live.

"I’d better not think about sad things right now," I mutter as I open the drawer to store the envelope with the test results.

I take my phone out of my pocket and leave it on the bed before heading to the bathroom. As soon as I step inside, I take off my clothes and toss them into the laundry basket. Then I step into the shower and turn it on, letting the hot water run over my shoulders. I close my eyes, allowing my mind to wander.

I wonder if the needle-phobic guy has already made it home.

I laugh to myself, remembering his scream and the nurses trying to hold that huge, frightened man in place.

Even adults have their own fears; sometimes, they’re what make us human.

I finish my shower, wrap myself in a towel, and dry my hair. Leaving the bathroom, I head to the closet. I grab a light T-shirt and a pair of comfortable pants. As I get dressed, my body relaxes.

I pick up my phone from the bed and sit down at the desk. The unfinished drawing waits for me. I let the brush glide calmly, filling in empty spaces, adjusting shadows, and reinforcing the lines that were missing.

The silence of the room is comforting; only the soft sound of brushstrokes and my steady breathing break the quiet.

When I lift my head, I notice the first drops on the window. Shy, light droplets. Then the rain thickens, turning the glass into a rippling mosaic. The city takes on a different tone—softer, more beautiful.

Inspired, I pull out another sheet and begin a new drawing.

The sea appears first—long, gentle waves, with a movement I can almost hear. Then the strip of sand. And without realizing it, I draw myself walking along the beach, the rain falling around me.

The line moves on its own, guided by some part of me I don’t always understand. When I notice, there’s another silhouette on the page.

Someone holding an umbrella.

Someone who shouldn’t be there.

Someone in a suit, impeccable posture… with a face softened by a smile I remember well.