BORROWED TIME

CHAPTER 2

“At times, the healing process does not begin with medication, but with an echo that makes you remember you are still alive.”

When Riley finished speaking, something silent but undeniable shifted in the room — not a sound, not a visible change, but a soft rearranging of air. Even the light through the glass window seemed to pause, as if listening.

Ethan couldn't put a finger on what it was. It wasn’t hope, exactly; hope was too pure , too sharp-edged for a place like this. No — it was something older, like a forgotten scent that stirred reminiscence before meaning.

Riley's smile lingered for a second after she stopped talking. She wasn’t waiting for applause or sympathy; she simply looked around the circle as if making sure everyone else was still breathing the same air she was. Her eyes brushed across Ethan briefly — light, unassuming — before she tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and folded her hands in her lap.

Something stirred deep inside him, long folded up and gathering dust, tilted open by an inch.

I don’t even know her, he thought, annoyed by the sudden pull in his chest.

But still , Ethan kept his eyes on her a little longer than he should have.

The meeting carried on. Rose the ever gentle conductor, gave a small nod to the man on Riley's right.

Shifting her gaze towards her , she warmly thanked Riley . “That was heart-lifting. Aurthur, would you like to go next?”

Aurthur coughed clearing his throat before speaking. His voice was thin but cheerful. " I go by the name Aurthur. Used to run a little fishing business off the coast, back when my lungs were healthier. COPD, stage four — can’t say I didn’t earn it. Fifty years of smoking the good stuff.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

He smiled through the oxygen tube that curved under his nose. “But a dream I still have about the sea. You know, the way the tide sounds different at night. That low hum, like the earth breathing.”

Leaning back , his eyes glistened slightly, as though he was already there — on a boat under the light of the moon , the smell of salt clinging to his reminiscence.

Ethan could almost hear it too.

Thereafter , next in line was Rita , the lady with the most colorful scarf. “I’m Rita . Fifty-two. A breast cancer warrior . I came here because my children kept crying in my kitchen.”

Giggles erupted from the room softly, but her tone wasn’t bitter, rather more affectionate, like a mother telling a narrative she had told a hundred times.

“They think I don’t have any idea how to let go,” she continued. “But I think they’re the ones holding too tight.”

Rose smiled knowingly. “ At times love does that.”

Rita nodded. “Well, love and guilt — cousins, really.”

Even Ethan found a small smile at the corner of his lips at that .

A few more individuals followed. A young lady with a scar down her neck said she was writing a letter to the fiancée she’d left behind. An older woman shared how she found it peaceful painting sunsets on hospital napkins. Each story felt like a miniature lantern in the dark — brief flickers, fragile, but full of humanity.

And all the while, Ethan sat in silence, his eyes occasionally drifting to the far end of the circle — to Riley , who now listened keenly to everyone else. She had that rare quality of attention that made whoever spoke feel less alone. She nodded when they talked, smiled when they hesitated, her eyes soft but watching their every action.

She looks like someone who’s already made peace with everything, he thought.

Or maybe she’s just better at faking it all.

He wanted to look away but couldn’t bring himself to .

“Ethan?” Rose's voice snapped him out of his thoughts . “Would you like to share next?”

The room turned to him.

He calmly cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how small sounds carried in spaces like this.

“I’m Ethan,” he began, keeping his tone clipped but neutral. A thirty - two year old Architect. I used to work in the city. I… was diagnosed with a relapse of Hodgkin’s lymphoma last year, currently in stage three . The treatments from the previous experience left a bitter taste in my life , so here I am l just want to rest ," he threw his hands in the air letting out a dry chuckle. " I feel more comfortable in that space ," he continued.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Comfort’s a funny word, isn’t it? Nothing about dying feels comfortable.”

A few heads nodded in agreement.

“I honestly don’t really know what I’m expected to say here,” Ethan continued. “I’m not one for speeches. I guess… I used to think I had time. Now I just have hours that feel too long and too short at the same time.”

He looked down at his hands, then back up at Rose. “That’s it.”

Rose tilted her head. “Thank you, Ethan. That’s more than than just enough.”

He nodded stiffly, then leaned back, feeling both exposed and oddly relieved.

When the last few introductions finished, Rosa moved from one group to another thanking everyone and reminding them about the evening yoga class and the upcoming garden walk. The meeting broke into soft conversation, chairs scraping gently as patients moved or talked in pairs.

Ethan stayed where he was, watching people move about interacting — these strangers bound by proximity to the same quiet ending. He did not belong here, not really. He was not mentally ready for all this talking about light and peace.

But when Riley shifted and stood and began folding her blue shawl , something in him moved before reason could intervene.

He got up too.

A mixture of the smell of green tea and disinfectant rendered the room— a strange union of comfort and sterility. Sunlight now reached further into the room, touching the metal edges of the IV poles and turning them gold.

He walked over slowly, unsure of what he’d even say.

Riley noticed him even before he spoke. Lifting her eyes , she looked at him calmly but curious .

“Hi,” she said, that easy tone again. “You’re Ethan, I guess ?"

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess we’re all on a first-name basis here.”

Smiling , half-amused , she continued, “It’s easier that way. Less to forget.”

“Right,” he said quietly. “I guess that makes more sense.”

A small silence stretched between them before Riley spoke again .

“I was enticed by what you said,” she added after a moment.

“What part?”

“The part about hours feeling rather too long and too short. That’s exactly it.”

He looked at her, surprised. “You actually listened?”

“Definitely .” She tilted her head slightly. “Isn’t that the main point of these meetings — to listen to each other’s hours?”

He didn’t know how to respond to that .

“I didn’t mean to sound dramatic,” he said finally. “Just… truthful ”

“Honesty sounds dramatic to people who stopped using it,” she replied softly, her gaze drifting toward the window. “But I liked it.”

Ethan followed her line of sight. Outside, the garden stretched quietly — pale looking lillies ,bright red roses, a wooden bench half in shade.

“You spend a lot of time out there?” he asked.

“Every morning,” she said. “It’s the only place that feels alive. The rest of the building reeks farewells.”

Ethan nodded slightly. “I do get that.”

A small smile crossed her face. “You should definitely join me sometime. It will do you more good, instead of bed rotting in your room ."

He almost smiled back. “You sound very sure I do that.”

“I’m pretty good when it comes to guessing .”

He exhaled a laugh — small, genuine, unexpected. “Maybe I will.”

“Tomorrow at dawn ,” she said, maintaining the eye contact . “Eight. That’s when the sun hits the lillies just right.”

“You’re serious?”

“Very.” She began walking toward the doorway, coming to a pause halfway. “Don’t worry. I'll have your seat ready , " she winked at him .

He watched her go — the soft shuffle of her slippers against tile, the calm certainty of her steps.

For a moment, the air in the common room felt warmer.

Tomorrow, he thought. Eight.

Sitting back down on his chair , the faint smile still ghosted his lips. Around him, the hospice hummed with the quiet rhythm of machines, voices, and life — fragile, flickering, but still there.

And for the first time since his diagnosis, Ethan didn’t think about dying. He thought about lillies .