Chapter 2

GRACE'S POV 

The office building stood tall and bright against the morning sky. It was one of the tallest buildings in the area, so it was noticeable from a certain distance.

I turned off the engine, pulling out the keys and stepping out. I've never understood people who casually left their keys in the ignition. 

Inside, everything felt calm and like the usual. The soft hum of the air conditioning steadied the rhythm of the lobby.

At the front desk, the receptionist, whose name I always forget, sat, typing away on her computer. Her thinly rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, and her nails were perfectly painted in red.

“Morning, Grace,” the receptionist called, sending a smile and a wave my way.

“Morning.” I smiled back, feeling terrible for not remembering her name.”

I said hi to my other colleagues on my way to my desk. 

At my desk, I took a deep breath and said a small prayer, asking for strength for the day. I opened my laptop and began sorting through emails. Numbers, schedules, deadlines, these things made sense. They followed rules and they could be managed. They were under my control.

Around mid-morning, I subconsciously looked towards a portrait hanging on the wall on the other side. It was a portrait of our former manager who had passed away a few weeks earlier. 

Ethan Adams was a very nice man. He had always made sure we were doing fine, handing out off-days whenever it was needed.

A few days before he passed, he had come to check on me.

I was scheduling emails when a shadow fell across my desk.

“Grace.” I looked up from my computer, eyebrows up on my forehead.

Ethan Adams stood there, hands placed loosely in his pockets. He was always composed with a calm voice, steady presence, the kind of manager who never raised his tone but somehow kept everything under control. He had charisma.

“You look pale,” he said, frowning.

“I’m fine,” I replied automatically. I wasn't fine. It was a few weeks after I'd found out I had gastric cancer. 

He didn’t move an inch, just looked at me, eyes calculating. 

“If you need time off, take it,” he said quietly. “Work will still be here.” He gestured to my work desk. 

His simple and genuine concern caught me off guard. My heart melted a bit.

“I’ll be okay,” I said to him, forcing a small smile. 

He nodded once, but his eyes lingered a moment longer before he walked away. An indication that he didn't believe me, but had anyway.

My phone buzzed, bringing me out of the memory.

Susan, my best friend, texted me.

I smiled before even opening the message.

“Dinner this week? I feel like I haven’t seen you properly in ages.” The message said.

Susan Hargreaves had been my best friend for nearly eight years. She knew my habits, my moods, the way I overworked when I was stressed and went quiet when something was wrong. If there was anyone I trusted completely, it was her.

“I’d like that,” I responded before putting my phone away.

For a moment, everything felt normal again. I was going to meet with my best friend and we were going to talk about anything and everything, and I'd be able to get my mind off a lot of things. 

However, I had an appointment with the doctor by noon. It seemed impossible to happen, but I hoped the news I'd get would be that the cancer disappeared, like it was never there. I almost laughed at the thought of it. If only Jesus walked the earth in this age.

By noon, I took permission from our acting manager before leaving for the hospital.

On my way to the hospital, the nerves crept in, locking my joints and making simple movements hard to make. My palms were sweaty and my head was pounding. My foot kept on tapping uncontrollably, and I kept swallowing my saliva.

I got to the hospital and parked. I spent about 5 minutes in the car, breathing in and out. Afterwards, I rolled my shoulders back and stepped out.

There was nothing worse they could tell me. Nothing worse than cancer anyway.

The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and quiet fear. Patients sat scattered across the chairs, some alone, some with family members beside them. Some were just family members of admitted patients. 

I sat alone, just like last time. I smiled at a little girl who was looking at me with huge eyes. She didn't smile back so I looked away before she thought I was a creep. 

I sat and watched people being called in. I wondered what they were being told and what their reactions were. Was I the only person with cancer sitting there?

When my name was called, the consultation felt both too long and too short. It was suffocating.

I walked into the office with my heart in my throat. It already felt like something worse was coming. 

“The tumor has grown,” the doctor said carefully, pointing to the scan in his hand. “We need to begin treatment immediately. Chemotherapy will help slow the progression.”

“How much time?” I asked. It has turned terminal, he just wasn't saying it. 

He paused, ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 

“It varies,” he said. “But beginning treatment now will give you the best chance to extend that time.”

I was being given a chance to extend, not cure, the cancer. Would I constantly have to extend my time on this earth? Is that how I'll live? By flipping the hour glass over and over again?

I nodded, even though the room felt distant.

“Do you have family support?” he asked.

The question lingered in the air for a while.

“Yes,” I said after a moment.

It wasn’t exactly a lie, I had a husband, a barely present husband, and a best friend. I just had to figure out a way to tell them about it. 

GRACE'S POV 

The office building stood tall and bright against the morning sky. It was one of the tallest buildings in the area, so it was noticeable from a certain distance.

I turned off the engine, pulling out the keys and stepping out. I've never understood people who casually left their keys in the ignition. 

Inside, everything felt calm and like the usual. The soft hum of the air conditioning steadied the rhythm of the lobby.

At the front desk, the receptionist, whose name I always forget, sat, typing away on her computer. Her thinly rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, and her nails were perfectly painted in red.

“Morning, Grace,” the receptionist called, sending a smile and a wave my way.

“Morning.” I smiled back, feeling terrible for not remembering her name.”

I said hi to my other colleagues on my way to my desk. 

At my desk, I took a deep breath and said a small prayer, asking for strength for the day. I opened my laptop and began sorting through emails. Numbers, schedules, deadlines, these things made sense. They followed rules and they could be managed. They were under my control.

Around mid-morning, I subconsciously looked towards a portrait hanging on the wall on the other side. It was a portrait of our former manager who had passed away a few weeks earlier. 

Ethan Adams was a very nice man. He had always made sure we were doing fine, handing out off-days whenever it was needed.

A few days before he passed, he had come to check on me.

I was scheduling emails when a shadow fell across my desk.

“Grace.” I looked up from my computer, eyebrows up on my forehead.

Ethan Adams stood there, hands placed loosely in his pockets. He was always composed with a calm voice, steady presence, the kind of manager who never raised his tone but somehow kept everything under control. He had charisma.

“You look pale,” he said, frowning.

“I’m fine,” I replied automatically. I wasn't fine. It was a few weeks after I'd found out I had gastric cancer. 

He didn’t move an inch, just looked at me, eyes calculating. 

“If you need time off, take it,” he said quietly. “Work will still be here.” He gestured to my work desk. 

His simple and genuine concern caught me off guard. My heart melted a bit.

“I’ll be okay,” I said to him, forcing a small smile. 

He nodded once, but his eyes lingered a moment longer before he walked away. An indication that he didn't believe me, but had anyway.

My phone buzzed, bringing me out of the memory.

Susan, my best friend, texted me.

I smiled before even opening the message.

“Dinner this week? I feel like I haven’t seen you properly in ages.” The message said.

Susan Hargreaves had been my best friend for nearly eight years. She knew my habits, my moods, the way I overworked when I was stressed and went quiet when something was wrong. If there was anyone I trusted completely, it was her.

“I’d like that,” I responded before putting my phone away.

For a moment, everything felt normal again. I was going to meet with my best friend and we were going to talk about anything and everything, and I'd be able to get my mind off a lot of things. 

However, I had an appointment with the doctor by noon. It seemed impossible to happen, but I hoped the news I'd get would be that the cancer disappeared, like it was never there. I almost laughed at the thought of it. If only Jesus walked the earth in this age.

By noon, I took permission from our acting manager before leaving for the hospital.

On my way to the hospital, the nerves crept in, locking my joints and making simple movements hard to make. My palms were sweaty and my head was pounding. My foot kept on tapping uncontrollably, and I kept swallowing my saliva.

I got to the hospital and parked. I spent about 5 minutes in the car, breathing in and out. Afterwards, I rolled my shoulders back and stepped out.

There was nothing worse they could tell me. Nothing worse than cancer anyway.

The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and quiet fear. Patients sat scattered across the chairs, some alone, some with family members beside them. Some were just family members of admitted patients. 

I sat alone, just like last time. I smiled at a little girl who was looking at me with huge eyes. She didn't smile back so I looked away before she thought I was a creep. 

I sat and watched people being called in. I wondered what they were being told and what their reactions were. Was I the only person with cancer sitting there?

When my name was called, the consultation felt both too long and too short. It was suffocating.

I walked into the office with my heart in my throat. It already felt like something worse was coming. 

“The tumor has grown,” the doctor said carefully, pointing to the scan in his hand. “We need to begin treatment immediately. Chemotherapy will help slow the progression.”

“How much time?” I asked. It has turned terminal, he just wasn't saying it. 

He paused, ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 

“It varies,” he said. “But beginning treatment now will give you the best chance to extend that time.”

I was being given a chance to extend, not cure, the cancer. Would I constantly have to extend my time on this earth? Is that how I'll live? By flipping the hour glass over and over again?

I nodded, even though the room felt distant.

“Do you have family support?” he asked.

The question lingered in the air for a while.

“Yes,” I said after a moment.

It wasn’t exactly a lie, I had a husband, a barely present husband, and a best friend. I just had to figure out a way to tell them about it.