Later that afternoon, I ventured outside once more. The hallway was quiet, the usual bustle of the hospital faded into the background. As I walked, I noticed the door to the third VIP room slowly creak open.
A small child, no older than five or six, stepped out. His hospital gown hung loosely around his tiny frame, but there was something striking about his presence. He looked at me with wide, curious eyes, studying me with a gaze that felt older than his years.
Behind him, a tall man in a suit emerged, walking slowly yet with a quiet authority. They moved together, but the little boy’s stare never left me. There was something in his gaze—something knowing, as if he could see right through me, as if he knew more about this world than I could ever understand.
I sat back on the bench, captivated by the moment, and for a fleeting second, I wondered if this child held the answers to questions I had yet to ask.
“Young Master, you need to stay inside,” the man spoke gently, but firmly, to the boy.
“I don’t want to,” the child’s voice rang out defiantly, his small feet refusing to be restrained.
Though the hospital staff had always seen me as strong because of what I’d endured, none of them knew the secret pain I carried.
Every night, I was haunted by nightmares about that tragic accident—the same one I had lived through when I was a child. When I was eight, the trauma had been so overwhelming that I refused to speak for months. No one was there for me. It was just me against the world. The hospital staff and the Child Care Center had taken me in, cared for me, and even ensured I received an education.
All of this was possible because of Grandma—the woman who treated me as her own, the heart of the Child Care Center, a place full of love and compassion for children like me.
“No!” the child shouted, his little face scrunched in defiance.
I snapped out of my thoughts, pulled back to the present by his loud cry.
“Young Master, you need to rest,” the man repeated, a touch of desperation in his voice.
Ignoring the man, the boy sprinted toward me, his tiny feet thumping against the floor.
“MOMMY!” he cried, leaping into my arms, catching both me and the man completely off guard.
“Ah…” I froze, unsure of how to respond. I couldn’t very well tell him that I wasn’t his mother. The way he clung to me, so desperate for affection, made it impossible to deny his need for comfort. It felt as if he had experienced the same type of pain I had when I was his age.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently, trying to offer him some form of reassurance. The man beside me looked even more stunned by my words.
The boy, still clinging to me, nodded with a small, fragile smile. His vulnerability tugged at my heart, and I smiled back, trying to offer him some semblance of warmth.
I glanced up at the man, who was standing motionless, his eyes fixed on us. There was no hint of suspicion in his gaze—he didn’t seem to question me.
Perhaps he saw the hospital gown I was wearing and assumed that I was meant to be there, or maybe he didn’t know what to make of the situation either.
“Baby… can we go back to your room now?” I asked softly. “You need to rest so you can get stronger. What do you think?”
The boy’s face lit up as he smiled and nodded. He was so obedient, and it was a comforting sight. He wasn’t even related to me, and yet he trusted me so easily. Without a word, he grabbed my hand and flashed me a grin. I couldn’t help but smile back.
The tall man, still standing in the doorway, looked on with wide eyes. He didn’t seem to know what to make of it either. But without hesitation, he stepped forward, reaching for the door handle to open it for us.
“Did you eat?” I asked as we entered the room. The boy nodded quietly, his face softening.
“Then, you should sleep now, so you have the energy to go outside again soon. How does that sound?” I asked, my voice calm.
The boy lowered his head and whispered softly, “Will you leave when I sleep?”
“No,” I replied, my voice gentle. “I’ll stay right here and watch over you. Don’t worry.”
A smile spread across his face at my words, and he closed his eyes, drifting into a peaceful slumber. I let out a quiet sigh of relief, watching him closely to make sure he was resting peacefully.
Once I was certain he had fallen into a deep sleep, I stood up carefully, trying not to disturb him. I walked over to the tall man standing by the door.
“Excuse me,” I said softly, my voice apologetic. “I’m sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t ask for permission before entering his room. I’ll leave now, so you can take care of him.”
The man nodded, still looking a bit surprised by the situation. I gave him a small, apologetic smile before quietly stepping out of the room.
“No, don’t worry. Thank you for your help,” he said, his voice shaky but sincere.
The tall man stood frozen, watching as the little boy, usually so wary of strangers, had walked right up to me.
There was something about me that seemed to calm him, and I could feel it too. It was an odd but comforting sensation. It was as if we shared some unspoken bond, as if our souls recognized the shared pain we had both endured.
