Monday morning, Naosa and Maggie sat side by side at the piano in the pediatric ward’s playroom. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, painting warm patterns across the keys.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you last week,” Naosa said gently, her fingers lightly touching the white keys.
“I missed you so much. What happened?” Maggie asked, eyes full of concern, her small hands resting in her lap. Though thin from treatment, there was a glow about her that defied her condition.
“We started a new intern term with a new team, and I was a bit busy… I’m really sorry,” Naosa said, looking truly regretful as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Don’t be! So—what was the first week like?” Maggie asked, curiosity sparkling, leaning closer, curious.
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“It was a disaster… but I survived.” Naosa leaned in too, her tone playful, like she was sharing a grand adventure.
“Disaster?! What happened? Tell me!” Maggie’s eyes lit up, the excitement of a good story momentarily pushing her illness aside.
Naosa grinned and whispered about her “secret mission”—how she cleaned the lab office and was looking forward to everyone’s reactions that afternoon. Her animated gestures made Maggie giggle.
“Please tell me how they react! I can’t wait for Wednesday!” Maggie bounced slightly on the piano bench, wincing just a little before masking it with another smile.
“Of course I will.” They laughed together, their voices harmonizing like the notes they had been playing.
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They had met six months ago.
Back then, Naosa had just started volunteering in the pediatric ward. She was still trying to recover from painful experiences of her own—wounds that hadn’t yet scarred over properly.
One day, she saw a woman exiting a patient’s room. The woman took only a few steps before collapsing onto a bench and bursting into tears, her body shaking with grief that couldn’t be contained.
Naosa rushed to her side, gently supported her elbow, and led her back to the bench. She quietly offered a hot drink from the nearby family lounge, sat beside her, and rubbed small circles on her back.
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The woman whispered between shuddering breaths, “Thank you… I’m sorry. My daughter’s very sick. She’s fighting, but… they say she might not have long. She’s only eight.”
Naosa didn’t know what to say. Words felt inadequate in the face of such pain. She simply stayed beside her, a steady presence as the tears kept falling.
Eventually, the woman’s sobs slowed, her breathing steadied.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
“Please don’t be. Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Naosa replied softly, her heart heavy with the weight of the woman’s grief.
“Thank you. I feel a bit better now.” The woman stood and walked away quietly, her shoulders still bent but steadier now.
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Naosa looked at the room she had come from. Memories rushed in like a tide she couldn’t stop.
She had fallen ill at the age of three and had spent much of her early childhood in and out of hospitals. The antiseptic smell, the beeping machines, the endless waiting—it all came back in an instant.
My parents must have suffered the same way that woman did…
The realization settled in her chest, heavy and aching.
She knocked gently on the door.
“May I come in?” she called softly.
No answer.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” She slowly opened the door, peering around its edge.
“Don’t come in!” a small voice screamed, raw with tears and anger.
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“Are you okay?” Naosa asked, concern overriding the rejection.
“It’s none of your business!” the girl shouted, her voice cracking.
“I’m sorry. I’ll come another time. I’m Nao. Take care…” Naosa closed the door softly, her heart aching for the child inside.
She guessed they were mother and daughter. The child was too young to carry such pain, too small for the burden placed on her shoulders.
She imagined the girl’s loneliness—wanting to play, wanting to sleep beside her mother—but instead facing illness, cold rooms, and isolation. The sterile environment that saved lives also took so much in return.
Sickness doesn’t just hurt the child—it wounds the whole family. It’s too much for anyone, especially someone so small, someone who should be learning about life, not fighting for it.
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Naosa returned the next day, drawn back by something she couldn’t quite name.
“Hello. How do you feel today?” she asked gently, standing in the doorway.
The girl whispered, “So-so.” She didn’t look at her—just stared at the wall, as if the pale blue paint held answers.
“Is there anything you’d like to do? The doctor said you’re okay to visit the playroom. Shall we go?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Okay. Want to talk with me for a bit?” Naosa pulled up a chair—keeping a respectful distance.
They talked quietly about nothing in particular—favorite colors, shapes in the ceiling tiles, the weather outside the window.
That became a routine. Day by day, little by little, the walls between them began to thin.
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One day, when Naosa came by again, the girl—Maggie—was crying. Not the angry tears of before, but quiet ones that rolled down her cheeks like rain on a window.
This time, she didn’t scream. She didn’t push her away.
In a small voice, barely audible, she said, “My parents are getting divorced. Even if I get better… we can’t live together anymore.”
Tears welled up and overflowed, her small shoulders shaking with the effort to contain them.
“They’re suffering because of me. The medical bills, the stress… my little sister cries all the time. It’s all my fault. If I’m going to die, why should they have to go through all this?”
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Naosa wrapped her arms around her, held her close against her heart, and stroked her head—fingers gentle against the thinning hair.
“Maggie, I feel you. I really, really do. But please listen—none of this is your fault. You are brave. You’re smart. You’re fighting something enormous, and that alone is more than enough. Please don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Maggie looked up at her—and saw Naosa crying, too. Tears falling silently.
Naosa kept stroking her hair until Maggie fell asleep in her arms, exhausted from grief and truth too heavy for her years.
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Since that day, they had grown close. They talked often, laughed together, and Maggie began sharing her dreams—fragile seeds of hope planted in uncertain soil.
She wanted to become a singer.
Before she got sick, she used to play the piano and sing with her mother. Music had been the bridge between them—notes creating connection where words failed.
And now… they played together again in the playroom, finding healing in melodies that transcended the clinical world around them.
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Naosa couldn’t help but see parts of herself in Maggie. Their circumstances were different, but the emotions—the pain, the loneliness, the weight of being the sick child—were all too familiar. She had walked the same path Maggie was walking now.
But there was one difference that haunted her in quiet moments.
Naosa was still alive—because of her mother’s sacrifice. And sometimes, that difference weighed on her like stones in her pockets.
What is the difference between life and death?
Is someone always fated to die?
No one gets saved completely. Even those who survive carry grief and pain to the end…
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One day, Maggie looked up at her, fingers paused over the piano keys, and asked,
“Nao, what do you want to be in the future?”
Naosa gave her a soft, sad smile, shadows flickering in her eyes.
“I wanted to be a lab scientist… but I’ve experienced some failures in my life.”
Maggie nodded thoughtfully, then smiled brightly, her face lighting from within.
“You know what? My mom always says, ‘You can do it. If you make mistakes, just keep trying. It gets better. You’ll get there.’”
She continued, her small hands gesturing with enthusiasm.
“I couldn’t play Pavane pour une infante défunte. I kept messing up. But I practiced over and over, and now I’m way better! One day, I’ll play it perfectly—with no mistakes.”
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Naosa gently stroked her head, emotion catching in her throat. “That’s… beautiful.”
Then Maggie looked at her with eyes too wise for her years and said clearly,
“I wish for your success, too.”
Naosa blinked in surprise. Those words—spoken so sincerely by a little girl facing so much—struck her heart like a bell, resonating through her entire being.
So young, and already so mature…
Even though she was just a child, Maggie had faced more than many adults. She was growing—emotionally, spiritually, deeply—in soil that shouldn’t have supported such growth.
They were years apart in age, but they had become true friends.
Two souls recognizing each other across years and circumstance.
They were healing each other.
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“Without you, I wouldn’t be who I am today,” Naosa whispered to herself as she left the ward—carrying Maggie’s courage with her like a talisman.
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