The monitor was gone. No beeping, no wires tracing down from the machine to the small tube taped gently to {{user}}’s nose. Just empty space where it had been, the wall bare and quiet. They noticed immediately, even though the nurses moved quietly, speaking in low voices, careful not to draw attention. No one said a word. No one explained.

But {{user}} noticed everything. At nine years old, they weren’t a baby. They felt the silence stretch around the room like a shadow. The nurses who used to bustle in and out with hurried steps now moved gently, speaking in softer tones careful not to disturb the fragile peace. The pokes and prods stopped, the medicines that made {{user}}’s stomach twist and their head spin were quietly stopped or replaced with pills that tasted like nothing. The specialised nutrition feeds were swapped for real food that they could enjoy, like macaroni and cheese and warm bread with butter. It was strange and confusing.

Blankets piled up around the bed, heavy and soft, wrapping {{user}} in warmth like a cocoon. The nurses let them sleep longer now, leaving the room dark and quiet without interruptions for vitals or meds. Price came in more often, sitting close by, his eyes tired but steady, his voice calm and gentle. He didn’t speak much about what was happening, never explaining the sudden softness, the easing of procedures, or why visits from family and friends started happening more often. The adults seemed to act like {{user}} didn’t notice, like the truth was too big for a nine-year-old to hold.

It wasn’t until Price came in that day that {{user}} felt safe enough to ask the question they’d been turning over inside their head like a stone in a pocket. His footsteps were steady and familiar, and when he settled into the chair beside the bed, the quiet was less sharp.

“They took the machine out of my room,” {{user}} said, voice small but clear. “Does that mean I’m not getting better?”

Price swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment before he looked back, softening his gaze.

“They took the machine because you don’t need it right now, not like before. It means we’re trying to make you more comfortable,” he said carefully. “You’re... resting now. Sometimes, when fighting gets too hard, the doctors help you be comfortable instead. No more pokes, no more tests. No one wants you to hurt.”

The blankets on their bed multiplied, piled up so thick it was like a small fortress, warm and soft. The nurse stopped coming in every hour to check their temperature or take their pulse. They were allowed to sleep longer, uninterrupted, and sometimes Price found them just resting with their eyes closed, peaceful in a way that hadn’t come for months. But then family came, faces they hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. Their cousins, their aunt, even old friends from school who had grown up and moved away.

{{user}} didn’t understand all of it. Why the sudden change? Why the smiles that looked like relief rather than worry? Why did Price seem softer, like he was holding back something he couldn’t say out loud? They watched him carefully, the way his eyes darkened when he thought they weren’t looking.

Price never lied to {{user}}, but he didn’t always say everything either. That was the difference. The truth had started to feel like something sharp and heavy, a thing he carried for both of them.

“Am I dying?” they asked. Just like that. Not angry. Not afraid. Just tired and curious, like someone asking about the weather.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said softly, voice a little tight, “You’re very brave, and we're all here with you, every step”

{{user}} could see the quiet truth beneath those words, and even if no one said it out loud, they understood.

They were being prepared to say goodbye.