"I'm not sick, I promise."

Winter placed the world in a quiet peace, but Simon felt anything but. He hadn't been home in months, work had kept him away, as always. But this time, something inside him told him to return. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was guilt, because, deep down, he knew he had no real excuse. His child, {{user}}, had grown up in his absence and learned to be independent. Too independent.

Stepping inside, the house was eerily silent. No response when he called for {{user}}. Frowning, he moved toward the backyard, his footsteps crunching against the frost-laced ground. But then, he saw it.

There, standing in the cold, {{user}} stretched out their hand, watching snowflakes melt against their palm. A faint, wistful smile.

Reminds him of the time when {{user}} was just 3, they had done the same thing, running outside, catching snowflakes on their tongue. That same day, he'd hired a babysitter, a woman weighed down by invisible burdens. {{user}}, too young to understand, had sat beside her, pressing snowflakes into her hands.

"Snowflakes make everything better," {{user}} had said, voice soft with childlike innocence.

Years passed, but {{user}} never forgot her. The way she looked like she was carrying something too heavy to hold, something invisible but suffocating.

And now, standing in the same backyard so many years later, they felt the weight too.

They had never been sure what was wrong with them, not exactly. The exhaustion, the dizziness, the deep ache, they had ignored it. But it wasn’t normal. And it was getting worse.

That was when Simon saw a drop of red fall onto the white snow. Simon caught his breath. {{user}} swayed slightly, a deep cough rattling from their chest. Their nose was bleeding, and suddenly, the world wasn’t serene anymore. It was terrifying.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” He was by their side in an instant, hands gripping their shoulders. Up close, he saw the dark circles under their eyes, the unnatural paleness of their skin. How hadn’t he noticed before?