"Mom… why don't you want me to die?" a patient asked his mother.
His mother stayed silent, her brow furrowed as she struggled to hold back the storm of emotions inside her.
"Why are you not saying anything?"
Slowly, she tried to smile, wanting to respond. But reality struck her too hard, and the act fell apart.
"Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?"
Seeing her child's innocent face, she could no longer hold back. She pulled him into her arms, the tears she had restrained finally spilling free.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. If only I had never given birth to you! I'm sorry! Forgive me!"
The child fell silent for a moment, the words cutting deeply into his heart. He was afraid his mother hated him—yet at the same time, he knew she wasn't that kind of person. Still, he asked softly, "Do you regret giving birth to me?"
Hearing that, his mother realized she had hurt him. Her guilt grew heavier, though for a different reason than before.
"No! That's not what I meant!" she said, tightening her embrace.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I wasn't born like other normal kids."
She slowly loosened her arms and looked at his face the one that truly believed he was at fault. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she wiped her tears and forced a gentle smile.
"That's not it, Ray. I don't regret giving birth to you."
"Really?"
"Yes. I just feel guilty that you have to spend your days lying in bed. That's why I sometimes think… maybe it would have been better if you had never been born."
"I've never thought about not being born,I'm happy to be alive. I can eat, I can watch anime, and I can still interact with other people through livestream chats."
"Ray…"
"Life is fun. As long as someone wants to live. After everything, you're alive, so you still have the chance to be happy. That's why… please don't regret giving birth to me, Mom. I have happy life."
"Ray!" Unable to hold herself back, she hugged him tightly once more. "I'm sorry. I won't ever say that again."
The boy fell silent and looked out the window, where a small bird rested on a tree branch. Leaves drifted slowly to the ground, it was spring.
"Mom…"
"Yes?"
"My birthday is in two weeks, right?"
"More precisely, twelve days, four hours, and fifty-eight minutes. Why?"
He laughed softly. "Can I ask for my present now?"
"Of course. Then I'll give you two presents instead," she said with a small laugh.
He smiled at his mother's smile. "Thank you. In that case… let's cancel the surgery."
Her expression changed instantly—from a forced smile to one filled with sadness, anger, and confusion. But all she could do was lower her head and agree. It was her beloved child's decision.
He was born with a breath that already sounded like an apology.
His body was small—too light to be held with confidence. Doctors said his heart was weak, his lungs fragile, and his immune system like a house whose door never fully closed. His mother smiled as she heard this, not because she wasn't afraid, but because she didn't know any other way to survive besides smiling.
Since childhood, the world felt too harsh for him. Rain was too cold, dust too cruel, and fevers arrived like guests who never knocked. Other children learned to walk, to run, to fall and get back up. He learned to lie still, to count the cracks on the hospital ceiling, and to recognize the rhythm of the machine that beeped in time with his own life.
He wanted to go to school.
Not because he wanted to be smart, but because he wanted to be normal.
His first day of elementary school lasted only three hours. His body trembled, his breathing grew labored, and his face turned pale like soaked paper. The teacher took him to the infirmary, then to the hospital. After that, school became a story he only knew through books and television.
"I'll try again tomorrow," he said.
Tomorrow never really came.
The years passed in the smell of antiseptic and white walls. He grew up without playgrounds, without flag ceremonies, without the sound of the dismissal bell. He learned to read from nurses, to count from his mother, and to write from his private teacher.
He wrote about the sky he saw from his hospital window. About birds that were free to choose their direction. About children who laughed without fearing they would fall ill the next day.
By the time he was ten, he already understood something adults often pretended not to know: life is unfair, and sometimes it doesn't need a reason to hurt you. Yet he didn't hate the world. Instead, he was grateful to it—for allowing him to meet the extraordinary people around him.
He was just tired.
At thirteen, his body surrendered more often. IV lines became constant companions; needles were no longer frightening. What truly scared him was the night—when his body felt too quiet, as if his heart might stop at any moment without warning.
"Will I get better?" he asked one night.
His mother held his hand. It was warm, trembling.
"You're already very strong," she said.
He smiled. He knew that wasn't an answer.
Since he was seven years old, his parents had held birthday celebrations, inviting relatives and acquaintances. Every year, his mother promised to grant whatever wish he asked for.
On the first birthday party, he wished to go to school. Unfortunately, that wish lasted only one day due to his condition.
On the second, he asked to study. His parents found him a private tutor and school supplies.
On the third, he wished for his parents' happiness. From then on, they always smiled in front of him, though knowing it was all an act only made him suffer more.
On the fourth, he asked for a more advanced smartphone. His parents granted it.
On the fifth, he asked to meet his newborn sibling. He wanted to see his new family member.
On the sixth, after a year of deep thought, he decided to hide the fact that his sibling had an older brother.
On the seventh, he no longer wished for anything. His parents began spending more time with him, his mother even quit her job just to be by his side.
On the eighth, he no longer asked his parents. He prayed directly to God, in front of everyone he knew except his little sibling. He wished to live, because life was fun to him.
On the ninth, he did the same, but this time he wished for health.
And on the tenth birthday since that promise began, the last one, he chose to let everything go.
At sixteen years old, he stopped asking about the future.
He began writing letters, entrusting them to his doctor with instructions to give them to his family after he was gone.
A few days before his seventeenth birthday, the doctor informed him that there was a chance he could be saved,but only through surgery. It was merely a possibility. Everyone knew from the start that the surgery was not meant to save him, but to identify the cause of his weak body. In truth, he would be a test subject.
He refused the surgery not because of that, but because there was a chance he would die immediately on the operating table. In the end, he chose to do nothing and wait for his death.
"At least I still have time to celebrate my birthday this year," he thought.
But…
He turned seventeen on a very quiet morning. The sky was clear—no rain, no storm. The machine beside his bed beeped softly, steadily, then more slowly.
His mother was holding his hand.
He opened his eyes and smiled faintly—a smile no longer burdened by pain.
"Mom," he whispered, "when I go… can I finally rest?"
His mother cried without a sound.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since he was born, his body no longer felt heavy.
There were no screams.
No miracles.
Only silence—the kind of silence that means someone has stopped fighting.
He passed away at the age of seventeen.
He never went to school like other children.
Never ran.
Never grew up with friends.
But he lived.
Quietly.
In pain.
With a courage he never showed off.
And perhaps, in another world where the body is no longer a prison, he can finally breathe without pain. Maybe?