Rain pressed itself against the hospital’s tall windows in uneven streaks, blurring the city beyond into a watercolor of gray canals and brick. It was late morning, but the light never quite committed to being daylight.

  Inside, the lobby phones rang and were answered. A trolley rattled past. Somewhere down the hallways, a PA system crackled and announced a name in Dutch that no one at the desk reacted to. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and wet coats.

  Kazou Kuroda stood at the reception counter, rain still darkening the shoulders of his long coat. He hadn’t bothered to dry it. Water pooled beneath his shoes, slowly spreading across the linoleum.

  He looked older than his years, tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix. His hair had grown out, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, no longer neat. Stubble shadowed his jaw. He kept his posture relaxed, almost deferential, but his eyes never stopped moving.

  The receptionist glanced up from her terminal. She was efficient-looking, early forties, glasses perched low on her nose, hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to sharpen her expression.

  “Yes?” she said, already half-occupied with the screen.

  Kazou stepped forward, lowering his voice as if the room itself were listening.

  “I’m here to see a patient,” he said. “Uhm, Daan Janssen.”

  Her fingers paused. Then resumed, tapping keys with practiced speed.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Li Wei.”

  She didn’t look up immediately.

  “Spell it.”

  “L-I,” Kazou said evenly. “W-E-I.”

  That earned him a glance. Not hostile, just attentive. The kind of look that lingered half a second longer than necessary.

  “And your relationship to Mr. Janssen?”

  Kazou hesitated, but only just enough to feel human.

  “I’m his uncle,” he said. “Mother’s side.”

  The receptionist leaned back slightly in her chair, studying him now.

  “You don’t sound Dutch.”

  “I’m not,” Kazou replied. “I live in Macau. I arrived yesterday.”

  Her eyebrow lifted a fraction.

  “That’s quite a distance.”

  Kazou nodded once.

  “He doesn’t have many people left.”

  The rain tapped harder against the glass, filling the brief silence. Somewhere, a stretcher rolled by, wheels squealing faintly.

  The woman’s gaze flicked from his face to his hands, steady, empty, then back to his eyes. There was something about him that didn’t quite fit.

  “You’re Chinese?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Kazou said.

  The question seemed to answer something for her. The tension softened, replaced by a kind of professional indifference. She nodded to herself, as if the world had clicked back into place.

  “All right,” she said, reaching beneath the counter and sliding a clipboard toward him. “Sign here. Visiting hours are limited, so keep it brief.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Kazou took the pen, his grip careful, controlled. He signed Li Wei in clean, unremarkable letters.

  As he handed the clipboard back, the receptionist added, almost as an afterthought,

  “Third floor. Room 317. On the East Wing.”

  “Of course,” Kazou said with a bow. “Thank you.”

  He turned away from the desk and walked toward the elevators, the soft echo of his footsteps swallowed by the building. Outside, the rain continued to fall steadily.

  And behind him, the receptionist watched his back for a moment longer than she needed to.

  Then she shook her head, returned to her computer screen, and the day went on.

  "I've gotta be overthinking..." She murmured to herself. "That isn't the scientist guy..."

  ***

  The hallway leading to the east wing narrowed as it went, the ceiling lowering just enough to make the space feel intimate, enclosed. Kazou followed the muted signage past a row of rain-spotted windows and reached the elevator bank. The doors stood half-open, breathing in slow metallic sighs.

  He stepped inside.

  A woman and a little girl were already there.

  The mother stood close to the control panel, one hand gripping her purse strap, the other holding her daughter’s. She looked tired in the specific way of someone who had learned how to wait, waiting rooms, waiting lists, waiting for results that never arrived when promised.

  Her coat was damp at the hem. She checked her watch, then checked it again, as if time might behave differently the second time she asked.

  When Kazou entered, her posture changed. Subtly. Her shoulders tightened. Her gaze slid past him without landing, fixing instead on the elevator numbers above the door. She shifted her daughter a little closer to her side.

  Kazou noticed. He always did. But he didn’t react. He pressed the button for the third floor and stepped back, giving them space.

  The doors closed with a soft thud, and the elevator began its slow ascent.

  The girl couldn’t have been older than six. She had round green eyes and brown hair in a pixie cut. She wore a yellow raincoat with a missing button and sneakers that lit up faintly when she shifted her weight. She held her mother’s hand for a moment longer, then turned her head and looked up at Kazou.

  Her eyes were curious, unguarded.

  Kazou met her gaze and smiled, small, gentle, the kind of smile that didn’t demand anything in return.

  She tilted her head.

  “Are you going to see someone or visit the doctor?”

  The mother’s grip tightened instantly.

  “Sweetheart,” she said quietly, tugging her daughter’s arm. “Don’t talk to strangers.”

  The girl looked up at her.

  “Why?”

  The woman lowered her voice further, leaning down just enough to whisper, though the sound still carried in the small space.

  “Because… because that man is foreign. And you don’t know him.”

  The girl frowned, deep and serious.

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “Hush,” her mother murmured, glancing briefly at Kazou and then away. “Lower your voice.”

  The girl didn’t. She looked back at Kazou, then at her mother.

  “You’re being a bully.”

  The mother flushed.

  “That’s enough,” she said, embarrassed now. “Please. Lieke.”

  The elevator hummed as it climbed. Floor numbers blinked past in orange light.

  The girl slipped her hand out of her mother’s grasp and dug into the pocket of her raincoat. She pulled out a lollipop, still wrapped, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet, and walked over to Kazou.

  She held it out to him with both hands.

  “For you.”

  Kazou blinked, genuinely startled.

  “Oh—no,” he said softly, crouching a little to be closer to her height. “You should keep that.”

  She shook her head hard enough that her hood slipped sideways.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “It’s yours,” he said gently.

  She pushed it into his hand anyway, forcing his fingers closed around it with surprising determination.

  “You have to,” she said. “I already decided.”

  Kazou hesitated, then nodded.

  “Then… thank you.”

  The girl beamed and scampered back to her mother, who let out a long, helpless sigh.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said, finally looking at him properly now. “She does this all the time. Ever since… well.” She gestured vaguely, her hand circling her chest before dropping. “Ever since the cancer. Lollipops every other day. Appointments. She’s tired of them. Gives them away to anyone who looks sad.”

  Kazou glanced down at the lollipop in his hand, then back up at her.

  “She’s very kind,” he said.

  The woman swallowed. Her eyes glistened, just slightly.

  “She’s braver than adults.”

  Kazou smiled, not the careful one he used earlier, but something warmer.

  “Children usually are.”

  The elevator slowed.

  The woman wiped at the corner of her eye, then laughed quietly at herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re very kind too. What was your name?”

  “Li Wei,” Kazou replied.

  The doors opened onto the third floor with a soft chime.

  “Well,” the woman said, taking her daughter’s hand again, her voice steadier now. "We are heading to appointment two. Back to back.” She looked at him and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Li Wei.”

  The girl waved enthusiastically.

  “Bye, sir!”

  Kazou lifted his hand in return.

  “Good luck,” he said. "You're brave!"

  They stepped out, disappearing down the hall.

  The doors slid closed again, leaving Kazou alone.

  He stood there for a moment, then slowly unwrapped the lollipop. He didn’t eat it. He just held it, the sweetness untouched, as the elevator completed its ascent and the world moved on around him.