Chapter 2

I took Stellan to the seaside.

There were hardly any people there in the winter. The howling sea breeze cut across my face like rusted blades.

I placed the urn in the front passenger seat and fastened the seat belt around it.

This had been Stellan's habit. Every time he got into a car, he always carefully checked his seat belt, even if we were only going to the hospital entrance.

"Dad, Mom said doctors hate patients who don't listen," Stellan had said.

Back then, I always laughed at him. "What a nosy little butler."

He would put on a serious expression and correct me. "I'm a little doctor."

Stellan had adored Sharon. The walls of his hospital room had been covered with newspaper clippings about her.

One headline read, "The youngest cardiac surgery genius in the country."

Another read, "Her hands are a miracle god sent to the human world."

Stellan still hadn't learned to read many words, but he recognized Sharon in the photos.

Whenever a nurse came in to change his dressing, he pointed at the wall and said, "That's my mommy."

The nurses would smile and praise, "Your mommy is amazing."

Hearing that, Stellan would beam proudly.

After that, he would quietly ask me, "Daddy, when is Mommy coming back?"

I always told him she would be home soon. I had lied to him for five years.

The waves rolled onto the shore and receded. I sat on the beach and opened Stellan's little backpack. Inside it was a drawing book.

On the first page was a family of three. I was drawn very tall, and Sharon wore a white coat. Stellan stood between us with a red heart drawn on his chest.

Next to it, in crooked handwriting, were the words, "My heart will get better."

The second page showed the ocean. He had been scribbled all over the page with a blue crayon. In the lower right corner were three little stick figures.

He had said, "When Mom comes back, the three of us will go to the beach together."

I ran my fingers over the three little figures, and my fingertips went numb.

Tucked into the inner pocket of the backpack was a neatly folded wish card. The children's ward handed them out every Christmas. Other children wrote that they wanted toys, cake, or to go home.

Stellan had drawn a pair of eyes.

Underneath, he had written, "If I can't see the ocean anymore, then let someone else borrow my eyes and let them see it for me."

At the time, the nurse had asked if he understood what he was writing.

He nodded and said, "Yes. Mommy saves peoples' hearts. I want to save something for someone too."

Back then, I thought he had simply heard too many stories of people in need at the hospital ward. I never imagined that he had truly taken it to heart.

My phone rang as a call from the hospital director, Timothy Zahn, came in.

He said, "Mr. Stone, we've submitted all the paperwork for Stellan's body to be donated for medical research. His corneas meet the requirements and will be able to help two patients."

My throat tightened as I croaked, "Thank you."

Timothy sighed and said, "This was Stellan's own wish."

I looked out at the sea. Grayish-white waves rolled in one after another. They looked like the heart monitor in the emergency room with its line growing flatter and flatter.

Timothy spoke again. "Should we formally notify Dr. Claude about this?"

"No," I said.

"She is Stellan's mother, after all," Timothy added.

I lowered my gaze to the drawing book. "The hospital already notified her before the resuscitation."

Deafening silence came from the other end of the line.

On the day of the resuscitation, Timothy had personally contacted the Southville Children's Cardiac Center, asking Sharon to participate in a remote consultation.

Stellan's congenital heart defect had been extremely complicated. For five years, Sharon had personally organized every piece of his medical data.

Timothy had said even she might not have been able to save Stellan. Nevertheless, she knew his cardiac imaging better than anyone. Even a single opinion from her might have prevented the resuscitation team from making unnecessary treatment attempts that didn't help.

Maybe they could have extended his life for another 12 hours. That was enough time for me to take him to see the ocean just once.

But she refused.

Her email reply contained only one sentence, "I'm currently handling a sensitive pediatric case and cannot spare any extra attention elsewhere."

I didn't find out until later that so-called "sensitive pediatric case" was none other than Aiden.

He was recovering from myocarditis, and all his health indicators were stable. The recommendation was just to have routine follow-up assessments.

Even so, Sharon had stayed by his side for an entire day. She bought him balloons and coaxed him throughout his ultrasound. She sat with him while he ate strawberry cake.

She was a top surgeon who was supposed to wield a scalpel. But for Aiden, she lowered herself and did every one of those little, ordinary things that should never have been her responsibility.

While Stellan lay in the resuscitation room, his blood pressure dropping to nothing…

She had looked into the camera and said, "He's just a child. I can't bear to let the one I love most face even the slightest risk."

The wind grew stronger and stronger. I held the urn and sat by the sea all night.

Just before dawn, a pale glow spread across the water. It looked like the patch of blue in Stellan's drawing book that had been smudged with crayon.

I rested my face against the urn.

Very softly, I said, "Stellan, I'll take you away. We're not waiting for your mom anymore."