6th-floor shared room, the innermost window seat.

The warm 4 PM sunlight illuminated the cherry blossoms before shattering across Young-won's bed. Young-won squeezed his eyes shut against the glare, then, feeling his breath tighten, roughly grabbed the water cup from the side table and pressed it to his lips.

The temperature of the beautiful sunlight breaking over his favorite cherry blossoms used to be vivid when he was a child, but to 18-year-old Young-won, it no longer looked that way.

Soon, leaning listlessly against the headboard, he began pressing a pencil down onto a sketchbook that looked nearly torn from age, drawing meaningless black lines. The lead smudged, staining his pale fingertips.

The scratching sound of the pencil mixed precariously with the rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor. From the ventricular assist device implanted in the center of his chest, a very faint but ceaseless hum—vroom, vroom—could be felt. The device he hated most, yet eventually grew used to—a thing no different from a curse—felt exceptionally heavy today.

Breathing was particularly labored. It felt as if the air wouldn't reach deep into his lungs, hovering on the surface before scattering away. Young-won snapped the sketchbook shut and turned his gaze to the window. People my age are probably out looking at cherry blossoms right now. Running under the bright sun, feeling their youth. To Young-won, youth was nothing more than the white ceiling he saw the moment he opened his eyes and a routine so repetitive it was sickening.

Just then, the sound of the ward door opening was followed by a child's laughter, pouring in like cold water. An unfamiliar, alien vitality. A small child suffering from pediatric leukemia—one of the few he actually found endearing—and a woman who looked even more fragile than himself holding that child. Young-won gripped his blanket tightly.