Chapter 1: Hospital

The first thing Leon Wes heard when he opened his eyes was the steady beeping of a heart monitor. It was a sound he had become so familiar with that he could almost tell what time of day it was by the frequency of the nurses walking past his room.

His fingers twitched weakly against the bedsheet, and even that tiny movement felt like an accomplishment. Leon slowly turned his head toward the window beside his bed, though the effort left him breathing slightly harder than before.

Outside, the city was alive, completely indifferent to whether one particular person was dying inside a hospital room. Cars crawled along the distant road, people hurried along the sidewalks, and somewhere beyond the glass, a child was probably complaining about going to school. Leon stared at all of it for several seconds before a faint smile appeared on his pale face. It was strange how beautiful ordinary life looked when you knew you were about to lose it.

"Six months," Leon murmured, his voice barely louder than the hum of the machines surrounding him. "Six months of injections, six months of doctors telling me to stay positive, six months of people saying there might be a miracle around the corner." He paused, swallowing against the dryness in his throat before letting out a quiet laugh that immediately turned into a cough.

"Turns out the miracle took a wrong turn somewhere. Maybe it got stuck in traffic. Typical. Even miracles have terrible navigation these days." His joke earned nothing except the continued beeping of the monitor, but Leon smiled anyway. He had learned a long time ago that if he stopped making jokes about his situation, he would probably start panicking instead.

The disease had begun as something so insignificant that Leon had barely paid attention to it. Fatigue, occasional dizziness, a persistent fever that refused to completely disappear, and then the tests began. One specialist became three, three became seven, and eventually his medical records had grown thick enough to resemble a small novel.

The final diagnosis had been delivered six months ago, accompanied by carefully chosen words about progression, treatment options, and quality of life. There had been no cure, no experimental treatment with reasonable odds, and no miraculous procedure waiting somewhere.

His condition had simply continued getting worse, taking something from him every few weeks until even walking to the bathroom had become an exhausting expedition.

Leon closed his eyes and listened to the machine beside him. He remembered the first time a doctor had told him he was going to die, and strangely enough, he remembered being more offended than afraid. He had been twenty-four years old, had barely begun figuring out what he wanted from life, and had been told that his future had suddenly become a countdown.

He had wanted to become angry, but anger required energy, and the disease had been stealing that from him too. Eventually, he had settled into acceptance, although he never quite admitted that to anyone. Acceptance did not mean he wanted to die. It simply meant he had stopped pretending that he had control over something he couldn’t control.

The door opened softly, and a familiar nurse stepped inside carrying a small tray of medication. Her name was Sarah, and she had been assigned to Leon often enough that they had developed the strange friendship that sometimes grew between patients and hospital staff. She was in her early thirties, had a habit of tying her brown hair into a messy bun during long shifts, and possessed the ability to smile brightly while delivering terrible news.

She glanced at Leon and immediately noticed his expression, her smile fading slightly as she approached the bed. "You’re awake early," she said, setting the tray down. "And before you make one of your ridiculous jokes, yes, I know you haven’t slept properly again."

Leon opened one eye and looked at her with exaggerated suspicion. "That’s a serious accusation, Nurse Sarah. Do you have evidence?"

Sarah folded her arms and stared at him, clearly unimpressed by the performance.

"I have six months of medical records, and three nurses who complained about you staying awake until two in the morning."

Sarah then sighed, though she was fighting a smile. "Leon, you’re impossible. Drink your medication before I call the doctor and tell him you’re being difficult again."

"Being difficult is one of the few talents I have left," Leon replied, accepting the cup from her with trembling fingers. "Although, considering my luck, I’ll probably discover tomorrow that even that talent is incurable." Sarah’s expression changed at the word luck, becoming softer than before.

She watched him swallow the medicine, then quietly adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the silence felt heavier than anything.

Finally, Sarah placed a hand gently against the side of his bed and said, "You know, you don’t always have to make everyone laugh."

Leon looked at her for a long moment before answering. "I know." His voice was quieter now, stripped of the playful tone he usually used whenever someone looked at him with pity. "But if I spend all day thinking about the fact that I’m dying, then dying becomes the only thing I’m doing. I don’t want that."

Sarah’s eyes became slightly glassy, but she quickly looked down at the medication tray. "You still have people who care about you," she said.

Leon smiled faintly. "No I don’t." He then turned his gaze toward the window. "If I did, then things might have felt worse, knowing I will be leaving people behind."

The hospital room gradually brightened as morning arrived. Sunlight slipped between the buildings outside and painted a narrow golden strip across the floor, stopping just beneath Leon’s bed. He watched the light move slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and wondered how many mornings he had taken for granted before becoming sick.

There had been a time when waking up had been an automatic thing, something so ordinary that he never considered it worth appreciating. Now every sunrise felt like a lottery ticket, and Leon had long since stopped expecting his number to be called.

Later that afternoon, the doctors came.

Leon knew what that meant before they said anything. There was a particular silence doctors developed when they were about to deliver bad news, a careful hesitation that made every word afterward feel heavier. His primary physician stood at the foot of the bed with two other specialists, and none of them looked directly at him for more than a few seconds.

Leon studied their faces and immediately understood. "Well," he said, attempting a smile, as one of the doctors returned a weak smile, but the older physician simply lowered his eyes.

"We’ve reviewed the latest results," the doctor said carefully. "The treatment isn’t having the effect we hoped for."

Leon’s smile disappeared, but he remained calm. "How bad?"

The doctor hesitated. "Your condition has progressed significantly over the last two weeks. Your organs are beginning to show signs of failure, and the medication can no longer slow the progression effectively."

Leon stared at him. "So how long?"

The doctor took a breath before answering. "Days, perhaps. If we’re fortunate, a week."

For several seconds, Leon heard nothing except the monitor beside him. A week. The number was so small that his mind initially refused to process it. A week contained seven mornings, seven nights, perhaps seven sunsets if he was lucky. He looked toward the window and wondered whether he would ever see another season.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. The doctors exchanged uncomfortable glances, but Leon covered his mouth and laughed again.

"Sorry," he said between breaths. "It’s just... six months of suffering, and apparently my body decided to give me a seven-day free trial at the end."

The doctor stepped closer, his expression filled with genuine sympathy. "Leon, I’m sorry."

Leon looked at him and nodded. "I know." He didn’t blame the doctor. He didn’t blame the nurses, the medicine, or even his own body.

There was nobody to blame. Life had simply dealt him a terrible hand, and no amount of anger would change the cards.

The doctor then left after another brief conversation, promising to keep him comfortable. Once the door closed, Leon stared at the ceiling again.

"Guess this is it" Leon whispered, as he shifted slightly beneath the blanket, wincing as pain traveled through his chest, and he closed his eyes. "I suppose I’m going to miss this stupid room."

That night, the hospital became quieter. The sounds of footsteps disappeared from the corridor, replaced by the occasional distant announcement and the low mechanical hum of equipment. Leon lay awake beneath the dim light, unable to sleep despite the medication.

His body hurt everywhere, but strangely, the pain no longer frightened him. What frightened him was the thought of disappearing without ever knowing what came afterward. He had never been religious, but lying there with death standing so close, Leon found himself wondering whether there was anything beyond the darkness.

"Do people really just disappear?" he whispered.

The question hung unanswered in the room. Leon turned his head toward the window, but the glass reflected only his own pale face. He looked thinner than he remembered, almost like a stranger wearing his features.

There was no heroic final moment waiting for him, no family surrounding his bed, no lover holding his hand, and no unfinished masterpiece that would change the world after his death.

There was simply Leon Wes, twenty-four years old, lying beneath a hospital blanket and waiting for his body to stop working. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

"If there really is another world," he whispered, "I hope I’m luckier there."

The monitor beeped.

Once.

Twice.

Then the rhythm became irregular.

Leon opened his eyes, but his vision had already begun to blur. A crushing pressure spread through his chest, and he instinctively tried to call for help. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

The machine beside him erupted into frantic beeping, while somewhere beyond the room, hurried footsteps began approaching. Leon could barely feel his hands anymore. He stared at the ceiling one final time, and it slowly disappeared behind a veil of darkness.

"I’m... not ready..."

Those were the last words Leon Wes spoke on Earth.

Then everything went black.

There was no pain.

No sound.

No weight.

No body.

Leon did not know how long he floated in that darkness. There was no sense of time, because there was nothing around him that could mark its passage. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat because he no longer seemed to possess a heart.

He couldn’t breathe because he no longer seemed to possess lungs. He was simply consciousness suspended in an endless void. At first, Leon thought this was death. Then he realized something strange. He could still think.

"Am I dead?"

His own voice echoed through the darkness.

"Yes."