BORROWED TIME

CHAPTER 3

“Hope might be the silent ache between two heart rhythms.”

The hospice at night felt like a hollow space between two different worlds.

Ethan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The dim fluorescent light above him buzzed slightly — not loud enough to slowly irritate him, just enough to remind him his heart was still beating.

The sheets were too thin, the air too clean. A faint hum across the hallway told him the night nurse was making her final evening rounds. Somewhere down the corridor, a patient coughed in their sleep — long, hollow, human.

He should have been accustomed to all that by now — the deafening silence , the smell of antiseptic, the muffled sounds of machines keeping time. But tonight felt different.

He slowly turned onto his side, watching the pale slice of moonlight cutting through the curtains.

Riley's voice drifted back to him almost vivid but uninvited:

“ At times, that’s enough.”

He had no idea why those words clung . He’d swear he'd heard hundreds of speeches meant to lighten up their spirits in support groups, from doctors, from friends who didn’t know what else to say. They always felt like paper held over fire — thin, flimsy, gone too soon.

But hers for an unknown reason kept drifting back .

Maybe it wasn’t the words, but how she had put them — not as a mantra, but rather a realization she’d already made peace with.

Ethan closed his eyes.

He could still see her — the messy bun tied up with loose strands falling on her forehead, the quiet steadiness in her eyes. She didn’t look like someone dying. She looked like someone waiting for something sacred.

He didn’t want to think about her, not this much.

It wasn’t fair — not to her, not to himself. People here weren’t supposed to form bonds nor attachments. It complicated things.

But isn’t that what she had clearly stated?

That living slowly means noticing the small things?

He turned again, this time even more restless.

Sleep hovered just beyond reach, teasing him with its distance.

For the first time in many days, he was not thinking about pain, or medication schedules, or what the doctors had told him. He was thinking about morning — about lillies and a girl who smiled like she knew something he didn’t.

He scoffed softly under his breath throwing discretion to the wind.

The words faded into the oblivion.

He tried to reminisise about his past life that had now blurred — the office he owned downtown, the blueprints pinned against white walls, the late nights drafting lines into perfection. He remembered the busy street below, the way his reflection looked against city lights.

He’d designed and built towers for people who wanted to touch the sky, and now he could barely climb a flight of stairs.

But maybe Riley was right — maybe there was beauty in what remained.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, only the faint blur of dreams — a field, wind, something like sunlight on his skin — before morning slipped in quietly, involuntarily unannounced.

The first thing he felt was the beams of rays kissing his skin gently .

The room felt warmer, less sterile, as though morning had decided to pardon the night.

He slowly sat up .His body ached, but not unbearably. The nurse had left a glass of water and his morning pills by the bedside. Without thinking, he took them , his mind already drifting somewhere else .

Eight o’clock.

He threw a glance at the clock on the wall— just fifteen minutes left.

For a second , he paused , considering not going.

He could stay here, pretend he’d forgotten, save himself the awkwardness of trying to make conversation with someone who actually believed in beauty at the end of life.

But the thought of Riley waiting out there — alone, maybe admiring the lillies — tugged at him.

He swung his legs over the bed, feeling the cold kiss of the floor on his bare feet.

As he dressed, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His face looked a bit older than his actual age — pale skin, faint hollows under his eyes, the subtle tremor of exhaustion in his hands. But his eyes… they were awake. For once, they didn’t look dead.

He brushed his fingers through his hair, threw on a light cardigan , and made his way into the hallway.

The hospice at dawn had pin-drop silence than night. The world seemed to hold its breath between sleep and waking.

He passed by a few open doors — glimpses of other rooms, other stories. Rita's door was wide ajar; he could hear faint classical music playing from a small radio at a stone throwway distance. Across from her, Aurthur 's oxygen machine hissed softly, like waves in the distance.

Ethan moved past them, his steps light, almost reverent.

When he reached the garden doors, he gently paused . Beyond the glass , he could see the faint shimmer of sunlight on dew.

He pushed the door open.

The air outside was fresh, crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and flowers. The garden spread before him — a small courtyard framed by stone paths and low bushes. Lillies burned in soft clusters of purple and white, their petals glistening with morning moisture, as they gently swang from side to side .

And there she was.

Riley sat on the wooden bench near the edge of the flowerbeds, her blanket wrapped around her legs, a notebook open on her lap. The sun had just begun to touch her face, traces of warmth spreading across her cheekbones.

For a moment, Ethan simply stood there, watching. Something about how still she looked unsettled him — it wasn’t fragile but grounded, like she belonged to this moment completely.

He cleared his throat softly.

She lifted her eyes and smiled.

“You came.”

“I said I would,” he replied drawing a bit closer, just enough to be heard .

“Most people don’t,” she said, closing her notebook. “They promise, but mornings make them change their minds.”

“I’m not most people , ” he said interjecting her.

“I’m starting to see that.”

He sat down beside her, careful to leave a respectful space between them. The bench was slightly damp, the scent of wood and flowers mingling in the air.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the light move across the garden. The lillies danced slowly in the breeze, their petals trembling like tiny suns.

Riley spoke first. “They say lillies represent passion and creativity. But in some cultures, they’re for the dead — used to guide souls home.”

Ethan eyed her from the corner of his eyes . “That’s comforting.”

“It depends on which perspective you view it from, ” she said. “I think of them as flowers that intertwine worlds. Bright enough for the living, soft enough for the gone.”

He let her words settle. There was something soothing about the way she talked — calm, unhurried, as if she’d learned the language of time itself.

“What were you writing?” he asked a bit curious , nodding toward her notebook.

She hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Nothing much. Just thoughts I don’t want to forget and things I'd love to do before I cross over ."

“Can I ask what kind of thoughts?”

Riley tilted her head, thinking. “The small ones. How the morning feels like today. How the nurse’s earrings caught the sunrise. Things that remind me I’m still here.”

Ethan nodded slowly. “You notice everything.”

“Maybe that’s my survival mode .”

He did not answer that . The genuineness in her tone left no space for clichés.

For a while, they just sat — two people whose bodies had betrayed them, finding quiet company in the same ending .

A breeze stirred the lillies , scattering petals onto the path. One landed near Ethan’s shoe. He bent to pick it up, running a thumb along its edge.

“It’s seems indeed soft,” he murmured.

Riley drew a smile . “You’d be amazed how fragile things hold on longest.”

He looked at her, meeting her eyes fully this time. They were warm, deep, with a glimmer of humor beneath their calm surface.

She does not look afraid , he thought. Or maybe she is — and she’s just better at loving the world anyway.

The clock inside the hospice chimed faintly — eight thirty.

Riley glanced toward the sound. “They’ll be serving breakfast soon.”

“Yeah.” he muttered under his breath .

“You can join me again tomorrow,” she said warmly , almost teasing. “If you want.”

He turned toward her. “You sure you’re not just trying to fix me?”

Her eyes softened. “No one here can be fixed, Ethan. But maybe we can still be found.”

The words sank deep. He didn’t respond to it — just looked down at the lilly petal he caught .

It felt like a promise.