"Some meetings are written by fate. Others are written by pain."
— And this one was both.
*****
(Brianna's POV)
The late afternoon sky was painted in soft shades of orange, sunlight slipping gently through the leaves in the backyard of The Light of Hope Foundation.
I stood there, breathing in the scent of earth and flowers.
From where I stood, I could see the children running across the garden, their laughter echoing through the air.
That sound—it was like music I never grew tired of.
The sound of life. The sound of courage.
The sound that reminded me to keep standing, no matter how painful the road behind me had been.
My gaze landed on one little girl—a bald-headed child hugging a tattered doll as if it were treasure.
Its seams were torn, its colors faded, but her tiny hands held it close with love.
She laughed so freely, eyes sparkling like she'd never known pain.
That sight made my chest ache—and warm—all at once.
I knew that laughter didn't come from an easy life.
That girl was one of our patients, a fighter battling leukemia at stage two.
And yet, despite everything, she smiled like the world had never hurt her.
Sometimes I wondered—maybe it was children like her who kept God from giving up on us.
"You little ones… you're the ones teaching me what strength really means," I whispered softly.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply. Memories came rushing back—the early days when The Light of Hope was just a dream no one believed in.
"Children with cancer need hospitals, not fairy-tale foundations," they used to tell me, words dripping with doubt.
But I never gave up.
I sold part of my late parents' estate, saved every penny I could, worked every hour I had—just to build a place where sick children could still laugh.
And now, it stood before me—a small white building with flower gardens, walls painted in bright colors, and rooms filled with laughter.
"Mommy! Mommy, look!"
A tiny girl with twin pigtails ran toward me, clutching a sketchbook.
"I drew a Flower of Hope! Isn't it pretty?"
I smiled, kneeling to meet her eyes.
"It's beautiful," I said, brushing a strand of her hair aside. "Did Ella teach you how to draw this?"
She nodded eagerly.
"Yes! Sister Ella said if we draw the Flower of Hope with all our heart, our wishes will come true!"
I chuckled softly. "And what did you wish for, sweetheart?"
She looked up at the sky for a moment before answering in that sweet, unguarded voice.
"I wish my hair would grow back… so I can braid it like Sister Ella's."
Her words hit me like a gentle ache. I smiled, but my chest tightened.
"That's a beautiful wish," I whispered. "And one day, you'll have the prettiest, longest hair."
Moments later, I heard footsteps running toward me.
"Mom!"
Ella came into view, a crown of wildflowers resting on her head and petals in her hands.
"Look! We made flower crowns for everyone!"
"Ella…" I smiled softly.
At six, my daughter had eyes that carried both innocence and quiet wisdom—too mature for her age.
"Pretty, right, Mom?" she asked proudly.
"So pretty," I told her. "You're the cleverest of them all."
She giggled. "I just helped a little! They made most of it!"
Then she turned and ran back to the garden, laughter echoing in the wind.
"Be careful, sweetheart," I called softly.
Every time I saw her smile like that, my heart softened—and broke.
Because no matter how much time passed, she looked so much like him.
"Miss Brianna."
Anya's voice pulled me back to the present. My assistant stood behind me, holding a tablet and a folder. Her expression was tense.
"The potential donors have arrived. They're waiting in the meeting room."
I nodded. "Thank you, Anya. I'll be there in a moment."
As she walked away, I stayed for a while longer, watching the children play.
The laughter faded into the wind, but a strange unease began to crawl through me.
Finally, I turned and walked toward my office, passing the hallway filled with drawings—rainbows, houses, flowers, and smiling suns.
One drawing stopped me.
It showed two adults holding hands, with a child standing happily between them.
Below it, in shaky handwriting, were the words:
"Family is a hope that never dies."
My lips curved faintly, but my eyes trembled.
Inside my office, I closed the door and leaned against it.
"Stay calm," I whispered to myself. "This is for the children."
But how could I stay calm—
when the name on today's donor list belonged to the man who once destroyed my life?
When Anya had handed me the proposal days ago, I'd frozen.
The company's name was massive—one of the largest conglomerates in real estate and pharmaceuticals.
Their support could save the foundation.
But beneath that logo, one name shattered me.
Brayden Roderigo.
The name still echoed after seven years.
Was this fate?
Or a cruel joke from the universe?
After all the healing I'd done, why did his name have to appear now—here, in the only place that still felt safe?
"Maybe it's not him," I had told myself. "Maybe just his team."
I whispered that lie again today, hoping it would be true.
I fixed my hair, straightened my gray blazer, and looked at my reflection.
A composed woman stared back—strong, graceful… and tired of pretending she'd forgotten.
"You can do this," I murmured. "For them."
My voice trembled.
The hallway to the meeting room felt endless.
Each step echoed memories I had buried deep.
Children greeted me as I passed; I smiled back, masking the storm inside.
Through the glass window of the art room, I saw Ella helping the younger ones paint colorful flowers.
"Mommy! Ella made another Flower of Hope!" one of them called.
"That's beautiful," I said, smiling. "Keep it up, okay?"
When I reached the meeting room, my heart was racing.
"It's probably not him," I whispered again. "Just his team."
I opened the door.
Three people sat inside—two men, one woman.
Anya stood up immediately, but her voice faded into a blur.
Because among them, sitting at the far end of the table, was a man in a black suit.
His hair was shorter, his jaw sharper, his gaze steady—too familiar to mistake.
Brayden Roderigo.
The world stilled.
My breath caught.
Everything—Anya's voice, the donors' chatter—faded.
Brayden stood slowly, his voice calm and low.
"It's good to see you again, Anna."
The way he said my name—soft, almost nostalgic—
as if what we had was a memory to cherish, not a wound that never healed.
Every syllable felt like a blade reopening scars I thought had long disappeared.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
His eyes lingered on me, tracing every change time had left behind.
And even after all these years, I could tell—
he still recognized me.
Just as I still remembered the man who once looked at me like I was a mistake.
The air between us thickened.
Only one step separated the past from the present.
And I…
I stood there, fighting to look composed—
even as my world quietly fell apart all over again.