Prologue: A Mother's Love (Anne's POV)

"Why do bad things happen to good people?"

~~~

It shattered my world to see my son's cancer slowly consume his body. He was once such a lively, happy child who made friends everywhere he went! He was so smart too, always studied hard. This year, he would have been a Freshman in High School, but he was unable to leave the hospital. First my husband, and now my son... my little Arthur! He's gone, I had to pull the plug. His body completely shut down, and the only thing keeping him alive was the life-support system he's been hooked up to for A WHOLE YEAR!

In a fit of rage, I would slam my fist against the flimsy table in my son's hospital room, causing my bottle of water to fall to the ground pouring all over the marble flooring. I didn't care though, not about the mess, nor anything else but my beloved son.

He was my everything, my rock, and my hope. I'll never get to hear him talk about Lord of the Rings, Elden Ring, or a new fantasy manga ever again. He was so strong, always staying positive about the future he had ahead. I'm so proud of him, and the boy he ended up becoming.

As I stood up from the less-than-comfortable hospital chair, I'd place my forehead against my son's lifeless chest... weeping and grieving until the doctor opened the door. Turning my head towards the older gentleman, he met my bloodshot eyes with an emotionless, somber look. I resented him. He couldn't save my son, and he didn't weep upon his death. My son was just another patient for him, just another task on the way to get his hefty paycheck. Why did my son have to die, and not someone who preys on others? That, I will never understand.

"Anne? Might I suggest a burial service nearby-"

THUMP

"GET OUT! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE, NOT AFTER THIS!!"

I had thrown the bottle on the ground at the doctor, hitting him in the chest. The impact stung him a bit, but it didn't cause any lasting pain, it seemed. He just came right back.

"Please, I'm here for you, and I want to help you." Said the doctor.

And then, it hit me. There was nothing the doctor could do, and I had been thinking selfishly. The man had wet eyes, holding himself back from crying. He had grown attached to me and my son, and was trying to stay strong for my sake. I'm such a fool.

"I've been with you and your son for three years, Anne. I care for both of you very m-much. So please, let me take care of things. You have m-my number if you need me. We've been through this together, I'm your friend."

I'd hug the doctor immediately; my emotions were all over the place at that time.

"Thank you, Dr. Sanders, for all of the help you've given me already."

~~~

Before I knew it, I was walking out of the hospital. It was early on in the night, yet pitch black due to the storm clouds covering any light from the sky. The cold droplets of water touched my pale skin as I walked to my apartment.. which was four kilometers away. Then, I'd arrive and attempt to sleep the night away. My attempt at a peaceful slumber was a complete fail.

Deep into the night... I still lay awake thinking about my son. I hope there's an afterlife, and that it's a good place where he can be happy... and perhaps meet his father. He died before the birth of his son, because he was in the Army, sent off to another country to die for his own. All of his friends who came back told me he died a hero, but I think he died in vain. I wish things didn't have to be this way.

After a few more hours of crying, telling myself I had to move on, and that's what my son and husband would have wanted, I would eventually fall asleep.

Dreams are quite odd. I figured I'd be dreaming a lot about my son, but nothing like this. I saw my son as an adult, holding me tight and thanking me for everything. That thanks to me, he was able to live two happy lives. He was strong, had a large family, and yet still remembers me.

Two? Did he just say two?

It doesn't matter. This dream was probably very hazy, but something felt really special about it. As if my own son is thanking me up above for what I could muster for him in his 14 years of living. It made me cry, but I was unsure whether the tears were joyful or sorrowful.

If I had to make a guess, it would be both.