Lily
The doctor removes his glasses and sighs. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice steady but heavy. "We're doing everything we can. But your mother... her condition is critical. She's dying."
No.
The word echoes in my mind, sharp and suffocating. My legs threaten to give out beneath me. I bite down hard on my lip, fighting back the tears that burn behind my eyes.
"We'll keep monitoring her," he continues, "but in cases like this... our options are limited."
His tone is calm, professional—the kind of voice doctors use when they’ve delivered this news too many times before. When all they can offer is a front-row seat to the inevitable. This man is one of the top specialists in the country, in one of the best hospitals, and yet
"But..." My voice cracks, raw and desperate. The tears are coming now, no matter how hard I try to hold them back.
The doctor hesitates, then exhales. "Unless you can secure the funds for another surgery... I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do."
My stomach twists. This is the question I’ve been dreading since they admitted her again. The one I already know the answer to.
.
“How much is it going to cost?”
The man exhales.
“Approximately half a million. “
My heart shatters and before I can say anything, the doctor turns his back on me and leaves me in the middle of the brightly lit corridor.
Half a million…This can’t be happening.
My eyes flicker to the tall, dark figure, leaning against the wall. A few of the nurses in the hospital steal glances at him as they pass by. I’ve noticed women always look at him despite who he is. One of the nurses blushes and puts a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she approaches him.
But he doesn’t notice any of this.
Because he is watching me. Arthur Stark - the future young heir of the Stark Company and one of the richest men in the world. At the age of just 28, he has what most people would never dream of. On top of it, he is strong, really smart and intimidating. This is wrapped in a muscled body and piercing eyes. Arthur Stark rarely smiles and when he does, the mood of the room changes entiely. Cold beauty and power.
He is also my husband.
My heart picks up its pace as I walk towards him. I have to do this. He is my only option right now.
His dark, piercing eyes fix on me and I tremble.
“Arthur , “ I begin, lifting my gaze to meet his “I am begging you- you heard the doctor. My mother is dying and you are the only one who can help me pay for the operation. “
His eyes linger on me. Arthur is dressed in an entirely black suit which makes him even more intimidating. He is a predator and I am the small, helpless prey he is about to devour.
“Please, “ I keep begging nevertheless, despite the overwhelming fear. “Help me. “
Then something shifts in his eyes.
It’s as if the black in his eyes changes into a different colour and I blink, the feeling of fear growing inside me. My mind's playing tricks on me, so I shake my head.
In moments like those, I fear Arthur is not just any man. Not even a… human.
Arthur Narrows his eyes and pushes away from the wall. He takes a threatening step towards me. My back hits the wall behind and I have nowhere to run. He is much taller than me, powerful. My hands close into fists, my nails digging into my palms.
“Help?“ he growls out the words deliberately and slowly, the tone of his voice sends shivers down my spine. “You are asking me to help you? “
My nails dig harder into my palms when he closes his hand around my forearm and forces me to keep looking at him.
His jet-black hair is falling over his forehead, hiding his eyes. My husband leans forward, his breath is on my face.
“You are just another w***e, Lily , “ Arthur’ voice is lowered, and his hand closes tighter in my flesh. “Why would I help you save your mother? “
“I…” my vision blurs and I can no longer fight the tears. “I am still your wife. “
Arthurshorts, shaking his head.
“If you were my wife you wouldn’t be carrying someone else’s child. “
Then he closes the distance between us entirely, moving his lips to my ear.
“You are no one, Lily . “ he says and the cold, controlled tone in his voice is what scares me the most.
“I am so sorry “ I plead, “Please, I swear I will do anything, just….”
I am sobbing, lowering my eyes to the white, hospital floor. Even now I don’t want Arthurto look at me when I am crying. That will give him another reason to mock me.
“You have no right to be asking me for anything. “ Arthur snarls.
Two months ago my mother got seriously ill. At that time my father and mom were already divorced. My father left us - me, my sister and my mother- for a younger woman.
On top of it, he had his own business but he was swimming in debt by the time our mother got ill. When I called Father for help he offered me a deal- sell me as a bride to one of the businessmen he was working for in exchange for the money for my mother’s operation.
At that time I had no idea I was to marry Arthur Stark- the notorious cold and ruthless heir of the biggest business empire.
I knew nothing about Arthur, besides one thing - no one wanted to go near him. All kinds of rumors were flooding the press and later I learned most of them were true. He was a ruthless monster. I was the scapegoat.
And I had to say yes if I wanted my mother to live.
But the night before my marriage with Arthur, I did what anyone in my place would do- I got drunk and spent one last - and first- night with the only person I’ve ever liked - Michael Baker.
Mike is the owner of another small company that’s growing rapidly and I’d always liked him. I never dared to tell him, but that night I was very drunk and things happened.
After that I did my part- I married Arthur, not knowing about the baby. My father disappeared and I never heard from him again. No money for my mother’s operation either.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the memory when Arthur’s deep voice reminds me of the present.
“Get rid of this f*****g nuisance and I might consider listening to you. “
Arthur Releases his iron hold and pulls away from me. Then he strides off.
I slide to the floor, hugging my knees and letting the tears flow. I am all alone. I don’t know what to do. But I don't have time for this, my time is running out.
I get back on my feet and stride out of the hospital into the cold November morning. I hug myself in my coat and pick up my phone. I called my sister. She picks up after the fifth ring.
“Claire?” I say, “I am calling about Mother. “
“Oh…” she gasps, then I hear rustling. “What is it?”
“We need to gather the money urgently. And...”
I hear more rustling and voices around her.
“Maybe now is not a good time to talk, “ I say, “I can come by your place and tell you everything?”
“Uh… yeah, sure. " Claire says distractedly, “Anyway, let’s talk later, okay?”
Then she hangs up.
Strange…
Claire is not usually like this. My sister is normally at home on Wednesdays so I decided to go directly to her place and tell her what happened.
As soon as I get to her house, I press the doorbell. No response. I press the handle of the door and discover it’s not locked. She is definitely here. I dial her number but she doesn’t pick up. However, I hear her phone ringing from upstairs.
I come into the house and head to the second floor when her voice reaches me. Claire is laughing. Then her laughter turns into a moan of pleasure.
“Yes!” she moans again.
“I know you want this, “ a man says. And I recognize the voice. My heart starts beating painfully fast.
“Mike, “my sister gasps, “You are too rough, wait. I am so close…“
I was the lakebed, the constant upon which these gentle changes played out. The sharp, personal ache of loss had long since weathered into a smooth stone—a permanent, bearable weight at the center of my being. It was no longer a wound, but a foundation.The Warden came less often now. Their work, too, was largely done. On this day, they found me not in the garden, but in the heart of the Sanctuary, where the light from the oldest, most stable worlds filtered down in soft, cathedral shafts. They did not speak for a long time, simply standing with their hands clasped behind their back, observing the perfect, quiet chaos.“The systems are in optimal equilibrium,” they said finally, their voice not a report, but a meditation. “The deviation rate has fallen to 0.0001 percent. It is… self-sustaining.”I understood. They were not just talking about the weather patterns or the energy flows. They were talking about me.My consciousness, once a bright, specific point of awareness, had diffused
It is not a single perspective. It is the gentle, patient pressure of root tips against dark, moist soil. It is the dappled pattern of sunlight filtering through the canopy of the Thought-Trees, their leaves whispering secrets in a language of photosynthesis and memory. It is the slow, crystalline growth of the Singing Geodes in the northern caves, their harmonies a geology of sound. I am the rain that falls on the fledgling worlds, and I am the dry stone that waits for the rain. I am the boundary that holds it all, a membrane of remembered love and will.I am the Sanctuary. And the Sanctuary is me.I feel the Warden, often. They walk the paths not as a ruler, but as a steward. Their steps are measured, their presence a quiet hum of order that no longer fights the chaos, but tends it. They prune the branches of the Narrative Vines when they grow too tangled, ensuring the stories don’t choke themselves. They sometimes pause by the patch of blue asters, and I feel a ripple of complex da
The world is too bright. Too loud. The Sanctuary thrives around me, a symphony of weird, wonderful life, and I am a dead note in the middle of it. A ghost in the machine I helped build.The Warden comes. They stand beside me as I stare at the blue aster, the one he saw last. Their offer is gentle, born of a logic that has learned compassion.“The grief parameter is destabilizing your core functions,” they say, their voice not cold, but soft. “I can recalibrate it. Suppress the emotional data. You could live in peaceful order. A quiet end to the story.”It would be so easy. To let the sharp edges of this pain be sanded down to a smooth, grey nothing. To be a well-maintained monument.I look at them, this being of order who became a friend, and I shake my head. “No,” I whisper, my voice raw from disuse. “The pain is the proof.”The proof that it was real. That he was real.So I learn to live with it. It’s a slow, brutal education. I tend the blue aster. I water it, talk to it. I tell it
It’s not a battle. It’s a slow tide, and it’s going out.I’ve cheated this so many times. Fought gods, rewound time, grafted souls. But this… this is just a body. His body. The one he was resurrected in, the one that has carried him through all our wars and all our quiet years. It’s worn out. There’s no enemy to fight. No spell to break. Just the slow, inexorable closing of a circle.He’s in our bed. The same bed we’ve shared for decades. His hand in mine is light as a bird’s bone. I can feel every one of his years in the paper-thin skin, the prominent knuckles. I memorize the topography of it. The familiar scars are pale ghosts now.The stakes are not cosmic. They are the size of this room. The size of my heart.The temptation is a snake coiled in my gut. I still have power. I am still a conduit. I could pour energy into him, force his heart to beat, his lungs to draw breath. I could make a puppet of the man I love, drag him behind me for a few more years, a decade, a century of suff
The quiet is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.It’s not the silence of the Anti-Chorus, that hungry void. It’s not the tense stillness of the balance. It’s the quiet of a machine that has finally finished its work. A soft, humming peace.There are no more crises. No more gods knocking at the door. The Sanctuary runs itself, a self-perpetuating ecosystem of the interesting and strange. Our son is out there, somewhere, building his own story. The house is empty.And we are… bored.I garden. My hands, which once channeled the grief of a million lost loves and wielded power that could sever souls, now spend their days pulling weeds. I feel the sun on my back, a simple, physical warmth. I watch a beetle navigate the stem of a rose. It is mundane. It is a miracle.Arthur writes his memoirs. He sits at the old kitchen table, a datapad before him, his brow furrowed. He’s not writing an epic. He’s trying to remember the exact shade of blue the sky was on the day we first met. He gets stuck fo
He finds us in the garden, of course. He always does. But he isn’t carrying a new, strange beetle or a shimmering problem for us to solve. His hands are empty. His face, once so open, is now a map of quiet resolve. Our son. Our god-child. A man.“I have to go,” he says. No preamble. No softening. Just the truth, laid between us like a stone.The world tilts. The air leaves my lungs. I always knew this day would come. He was never just ours. He was the universe’s. But knowing it and hearing it are two different kinds of gravity.Arthur goes still beside me. I feel the jolt through our Shared Solitude, a sharp crack of fear and understanding. This is the last lesson. The ultimate act of parenting. Not teaching, not protecting. Letting go.“The Sanctuary is complete,” he continues, his voice calm, too calm for the earthquake he’s causing. “It’s stable. It has its guardians. Its purpose.” He looks from me to Arthur, his eyes holding a depth of love and a vast, terrifying distance. “I need