The room was almost completely silent.

It wasn’t the peaceful silence of sleep, but a silence so heavy that it seemed as if the whole world was afraid to make a sound.

The machines emitted a soft hum, and the lights flickered in a slow, emotionless rhythm.

A tiny body stretched taut by pain that no child should have to endure.

The boy’s chest rose and fell irregularly.

Each breath sounded like it was being torn apart, as if a struggle was being fought to escape.

Each inhale is shallow.

Then the pain returned.

The doctors stood silently at the foot of the bed.

Their faces showed caution.

Their voices were gentle.

There is no further increase in dosage.

There are no miracles waiting in a bottle of medicine.

The pain had crossed boundaries that modern medicine could not keep up with.

Will is still conscious.

But the boy lives very far away.

His eyes were almost always closed.

It’s not because you were asleep.

But even just opening my eyes is too much effort.

Light causes pain.

The sound is painful.

Even a simple touch can cause pain.

Her tiny hands curled up, gripping the blanket tightly, gripping herself tightly.

That’s the instinctive reaction of someone trying to keep themselves from falling apart.

Trying to cling to something that’s about to fall apart.

His body trembled whenever the pain intensified.

Not intense.

Noiseless.

Just enough for his parents to realize.

And they realized everything.

They have learned the language of their child’s pain.

Jaw clenching.

His breathing paused slightly.

The way your fingers tense up before the pain hits.

They sat right next to each other.

The chair was so close it was touching the bed.

They didn’t leave.

They can’t.

The mother’s hand gently rested on Will’s arm.

She hardly put any pressure on me.

She feared that even comfort might cause her child more pain.

Her thumb traced a small circle repeatedly.

That was the only thing she still had control over

The father was sitting on the opposite side.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together.

His head was bowed down.

It wasn’t because of sleep.

Not for rest.

Because of a lack of focus.

He listened to every breath.

He unconsciously counted them.

He learned that counting made him feel useful.

As if simply paying attention could protect her son.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Will was very different.

There was a time when he laughed very easily.

There was a time when he argued back when it was time for bed.

There was a time when he would ask questions that lasted for an entire afternoon.

He loves dinosaurs.

He loves stories.

He loves being carried even though he’s old enough to walk on his own.

Cancer comes on silently.

A lament of pain.

A limp that’s sometimes there and sometimes not.

One doctor’s visit turned into more tests.

Then take X-rays.

Then words changed everything.

The battle began with hope.