The machines whispered their mechanical lullabies — soft and steady, they echoed through the hospital room like an invisible beast, sleeping for now, but that could be awakened at any moment.
My son lay still beneath the blanket, his chest rising and falling in shallow waves, like a tide that might not come back. Me, on the other hand, hadn't moved in hours. My leg had gone numb beneath me, folded awkwardly under the plastic chair. My back throbbed, but I stayed still. Stillness felt like the only thing I could control. I was afraid that if I shifted, something in the rhythm would break, and I might set the alarms, trigger the beast, scare the tide away.
The lights flickered above me, and the clock made sure to let me know each second that had gone by. Barely noticeable. Just enough to remind me he wouldn't be here for long.
I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair — thin, soft, like paper ash. His skin was pale. Lips dry. He hadn't spoken all day. Just stared past me, eyes fogged, lost in some place I couldn't follow.
Not like he could have said anything anyway, the devices helping him breathe were too much for a small body like his, so he spent most of the time in a daze.
The nurses told me his vitals were "stable." Stable. As if he were some old scaffolding clinging to the edge of collapse and not a person, not a 5-year-old boy. Like it wasn't my boy they were referring to.
"Do you think I'll ever see the ocean?"
He asked me that two nights ago. Just before the fever came back.
"What?"
"The ocean. For real. With seagulls and shells. Not just pictures."
I smiled. I didn't answer. Even though the ocean wasn't so far away, I couldn't afford to lie to him; he wouldn't make it. Even a few minutes away from those machines would be too much, never mind the miaselly 2-hour drive to the nearest beach. He deserved better than a lie. But the truth would've killed something in both of us.
Silence was my answer, and like the sweet child he is, he understood and was quickly drawn back to his colouring book.
I shifted a little by the memory of it. The chair groaned beneath me. My eyes stung, but I didn't cry. Not here. Not while he was still breathing, not when he finally managed to sleep soundly.
It was strange, in times like these, the smallest things became victories. Holding a crayon, blinking without effort... Inhaling alone.
Even now, I watched his chest as my darkest fears crawled into my head; it might stop at any second. I'd done that since he was a baby — listening, always preparing, for the silence that would mean everything had ended.
Outside, the hallway was well lit in sharp contrast to the city beyond the 13-floor window, dark. It was 3 a.m. That hour when time felt abandoned, too late to sleep, too early to do anything productive. The nurses had all gone quiet. I stared at the void beyond that window endlessly, as if trying to memorise it. My eyes closed for a second; it was just a second. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to.
When I opened them in a shock, something had changed. My son! My son was still breathing...
The city was still dark. The hallway was still lit. The machines still beeped. The lights still buzzed. But something was wrong. The beeping slowed.
Not by much — just a half-second longer between each chirp. But I noticed. I always noticed. It was my only job to notice. It was like the machine itself had forgotten what came next.
Like the room was holding its breath. Like the air had thickened — not colder, not warmer, just heavier. Like standing beneath a ceiling that might fall.
My heart stuttered. Something was watching me.
I don't know how I knew. I didn't see anything yet. But I felt it — like static beneath my skin. Like being seen in a dream, right before you wake up.
I turned my head toward the corner of the room.
And he was there.
No visitor's tag. No nurse's scrubs. No clipboard. Thin. Dressed in dark clothes too neat, too pressed — like someone had tried to draw a man from memory and missed something small but important.
Just standing there, at the foot of my son's bed, hands loosely folded in front of him. Silently watching.
"Who…" I forced myself to stand. "Who the hell are you?" I let out a scream much softer than I intended it to be.
He turned toward me — slowly — like someone in a dream.
His eyes were like the view of the city. Void. Blank. Unblinking. If I were asked to describe him, I couldn't; his face had no specific feature, no trace of emotion, story, or anything. It was like I couldn't see him at all. Even though he was looking me in the eyes.
He didn't answer.
My hand started to shake. "You need to leave. Right now." I tried to reach for my phone in my back pocket, and then he spoke.
"You're awake."
His voice was calm. Not cold. Not threatening. Just… indifferent. Like a clerk noticing I was next in line. But for some reason, I couldn't move, I couldn't take my eyes off him. I shouldn't.
"You see me clearly."
"What?"
"Interesting."
I wanted to scream. To shove him out of the room. To grab something heavy and make the world make sense again. But my legs wouldn't move.
Because deep down, something in me understood: This wasn't a man.
He looked down at my son again.
Not with malice, nor pity. Just… observing. Like a scientist observes bacteria, calculating, detailing, and taking notes.
"You shouldn't be here," I whispered.
He looked at me again. And he smiled. Not a kind smile, but not cruel. Just… tired and polite.
I opened my mouth, but the lights flickered once — twice — and he was gone.
No footsteps. No door.
Just gone.
The monitor chirped back into rhythm. The call button blinked red. The hallway buzzed faintly back to life.
And beside me, my son stirred.
His lips moved, barely a whisper:
"...the ocean..."