Big John was not looking for a miracle when he took the wrong turn into Room 117 at Saint Mary’s Hospice. He had been following the signs half-blind with grief, his eyes swollen from a night without sleep, his thoughts fixed on his younger brother lying somewhere down the hall with only hours left. The building smelled of antiseptic and wilted flowers, the air heavy with that peculiar stillness that belongs only to places where goodbyes are constantly happening. Big John had spent most of his life outrunning quiet places like this. He was a man built for noise—engines roaring, wind tearing past his ears, laughter echoing across open roads. His leather vest bore patches faded by sun and rain, symbols of a brotherhood forged through miles and scars. Yet there he was, standing frozen in a doorway he had no intention of entering, stopped by a sound that cut deeper than any siren or scream. It was a child’s crying, soft and worn down, as if the tears themselves were tired. Inside the room, machines hummed gently, their steady rhythm contrasting painfully with the fragile life resting on the bed. Katie lay there impossibly small, her head bald and smooth, her eyes too large for her face, her body nearly lost beneath thin blankets. She looked at him with curiosity rather than fear and asked if he was lost. Big John swallowed, his throat tightening, and answered honestly that maybe he was. When she explained, in the simple way only children can, that her parents had gone out and never come back, something inside him cracked open. He had known loss, betrayal, and regret, but this was different. This was innocence abandoned. He felt it settle into his chest, heavy and permanent, like a promise waiting to be spoken. Continue reading…
