BORROWED TIME

CHAPTER 4

“Some silences are not empty — they are waiting.”

At nine , breakfast was served, but the hospice seemed to move at its own rhythm.

People drifted in only when they could, rather than when they should.

Into the dining area , walked Ethan, still half-caught between the morning air and the warmth that lingered from the garden. The smell of porridge and toast mingled with soft piano music from a radio near the window.

At the long wooden table, sat some patients who were scattered — some chatting, some staring into the space lost in the medication's fog while some simply talked in hushed conversations. He saw Riley almost immediately. She was sitting near the end of the table, stirring her tea absent-mindedly, eyes half-focused on the sunlight pouring across her plate , unaware of Ethan’s presence.

When she noticed him, her expression softened, as if the day had just remembered to begin.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning.”

He took the seat opposite her. Someone had already set out trays — oatmeal, slices of banana, two tiny butter packets.

“I see you came for breakfast,” she said with a surprise filled with mockery.

“I figured I would try to make it a habit,” Ethan replied, spreading butter on toast with unnecessary precision.

“Habits slow down the rhythm of life ,” she murmured. " I guess that's a compliment.”

Smirking faintly, he said , “You say that as if the whole concept was invented by you .”

She took a sip of her tea. “No. I just learned not to run anymore.”

Something in her tone made him look up. She was not talking about walking.

He wanted to ask — When did you stop running? Why? — but instead, he nodded toward her cup. “Mint tea again?”

“Helps with my breathing .”

He hesitated. “Your condition… does it—”

Gently, she interrupted, putting the cup down. “It takes its time. The treatments slowed things, but not enough. I guess my body got tired of fighting before I did.”

He lowered his gaze. The clink of spoons and faint laughter from the next table filled the deafening pause.

When he looked back up, Riley was gazing at him — not with pity, but rather with a grace that was somewhat odd sort .

“What about you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Sucks to be honest . I don't give a damn anymore. "

“The cancer’s in remission,” he said. “ I don't want to go through that pain anymore, I guess it is time to rest ," he huffed slowly . " I'm glad for the beautiful experience I had while I was healthy ," he smirked dryly , muttering under his breath.

Riley gently lowered her gaze mummering, " maybe there are better moments waiting for you out there to experience them in the fullness of their beauty ."

He liked how she said things — with a calm strength that almost made you believe in the promises of tomorrow.

They finished breakfast without saying much else. But the silence was comfortable, like two people sharing warmth without needing to name it.

In fragments, the afternoon drifted by — nurses moving in white shoes, the distinct smell of disinfectant and lavender air freshener, the soft click of wheelchairs down polished corridors.

Ethan found himself wandering to the hospice’s art room. It wasn’t that much of a very large room — just a square space with wide windows and a few easels scattered around. Someone had left paintbrushes soaking in cloudy water. A staff member named Mia was setting up canvases for the day’s activity.

“Thought I’d see if I still remember how to draw,” Ethan said, half-smiling as he stepped inside.

Mia looked up. “Then i guess you are indeed lucky today . The theme for today is ‘memory.’”

He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like therapy in the form of art.”

“Exactly,” moving on to arrange pastels, she said cheerfully.

When he turned, Riley was already there — sitting near the window, sunlight warming her hands as she arranged colored pencils in neat rows.

He hesitated before approaching. “You are everywhere I go.”

With a soft grin , she looked up. “Or maybe you are the one following me.”

“I highly doubt missy ,” he let out a soft chuckle , pulling up a stool beside her.

“What are you drawing?”

“Not sure yet,” she said. “Maybe the garden or probably the light of the sun .”

He looked out the window — the same garden from that morning, now painted in gold and shadow. “Draw both,” he said.

Riley chuckled. “You sound like someone who at one point in his lifetime used to make blueprints.”

“Architect,” he said simply. “Before all...... this.”

“That now explains it all . You talk like someone who measured the world once.”

Smiling faintly, he said , “And you talk like someone who listens to the world's breathing .”

She paused for a moment, pencil hovering above the page. “That’s sweet , Ethan.”

“I was not trying to be.”

“ It still is.”

Silence fell in between them again, sketching in parallel. The room filled with soft scratching sounds — pencil against paper , the rhythm of quiet creation. A few other patients joined them, laughter bubbling occasionally from one corner. But around Ethan and Riley , the world seemed to fold inward, slowing into focus.

He took a glance at her page. She was drawing lillies, although not perfectly, but with emotion. Each petal shaded like it remembered sunlight.

“That’s quite commendable ,” he murmured.

“It’s somehow messy,” she said, squinting.

“So is this life we are living .”

Riley chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “You’ve got a poet hiding under that cynic.”

He chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “I think your reputation’s safe here.”

---

Later that day, rain came unexpectedly.

It slowly began as a hush — a soft tapping against glass, then a whisper of wind curling through the open window. The hospice seemed to exhale as the scent of rain rolled in — clean, earthy, nostalgic.

Riley put her pencil down and watched the drops of rain roll down the windowpane. “It smells like my grandmother’s porch,” she said quietly.

“Mine smelled like a mixture of dust and a sprinkle of rust ,” Ethan replied.

“Was it by the city?”

He nodded. “Downtown. My father built it himself. It stood anyway despite every nail being crooked .”

“That’s what matters,” she said. “That it stood.”

He smiled faintly. “You always make things sound softer than they were.”

“Maybe that’s my way of rewriting the pain.”

He silently thought about that — how pain could be turned and every aspect edited by memory, rewritten until it fit the version that sounded calmer to live with .

Riley turned toward him. “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you got better?”

He hesitated. “ Never .... i guess until now .”

“And?”

“I would take some time and build again,” he said. “Maybe something smaller this time. A house by the sea probably. Nothing posh . Just walls that breathe and a roof that listens.”

Her eyes brightened. “You make it sound alive.”

“What about you?” he asked.

A small smile crept her lips wistfully. “I’d dance again. That was my hobby, before… all this.” She gestured vaguely toward her thin frame. “Ballet. My body remembered the music before my mind did.”

Ethan’s gaze softened. “You still move like a dancer.”

“Old habits,” she muttered. “They linger even when the body forgets.”

Silence fell between them — gentle, pulsing with something unspoken. The world softening into silver light and the rain slowed .

---

By evening, the hospice lights dimmed to amber. Dinner passed quietly — a bowl of rice , chicken stew , soft murmurs of conversation. Ethan and Riley sat across from each other again, their hands occasionally brushing when they reached for the salt or folded napkins.

It wasn’t intentional. But it wasn’t accidental either.

Later, when most patients had retired to their rooms, Ethan found himself drawn once more toward the garden. The rain had stopped, leaving the world damp and shining. The air smelled like a mixture of second chances and wet leaves .

For some reason , he wasn’t surprised to find Amara there — standing beneath the awning, her hair still slightly damp, and her pressing her notebook lightly into her chest .

“I thought you’d be asleep by now , its quite late ” he said.

“I thought you’d stop pretending not to care,” she replied softly.

He blinked rapidly. “What gives you the thought that I’m pretending?”

Her gaze searching his , she stepped closer “Because you look at the world like someone who wants to love it but the memory has disappeared into the oblivion.”

He swallowed, the air thick between them. “And you?”

“I look at the world like someone running out of time,” she said. “Which is why everything you don't , i do notice .”

They stood there — inches apart, surrounded by the scent of lillies and rain.

He wanted to say something — anything — but too heavy , did the words feel . So he simply reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

Her breath came to a hitch . Not from surprise, but rather recognition.

Then a smile slowly crept the corners of her lips — that slow, knowing smile that seemed to undo him from the inside out.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked finally, his voice quiet.

“If the world lets me, i guess ,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll surely remind it to.”

For the first time, she laughed — a soft, real laugh that cracked through the weight of things.

And for a fleeting moment, the hospice didn’t feel like a waiting room between world of the living and the dead .

It felt like borrowed time made sacred.