Noah was the only child of a wealthy and well-known family. His father — a prominent businessman whose name carried weight in every important circle. His mother — a renowned fashion designer, always dazzling, always flawless in the public eye.

Their house was filled with light. Priceless furniture. But amid all perfection, Noah had always been quieter than the rest. Since childhood, his heart had never beat quite right. Doctors used complicated words he couldn’t understand, but the worried look in his mother’s eyes after every check-up told him enough. He spent most of his life in private hospital. Noah had learned not to laugh too hard — it left him breathless. He had learned not to run — his heart couldn’t take it. He was always told to “stay calm,” “rest,” And in the end… he always stayed alone. His father was often abroad. His mother, buried in projects and social events. They loved Noah — but not in the way he needed. He preferred sitting in his room, with his kitten, his sketchbook, and his dreams. As his condition worsened, his father searched the globe to put Noah on the transplant list. But even that required a miracle. And one day, the miracle came. .... Dan was never one to get along with the world. He always stood a little to the side — away from crowds, noise, and people.

For as long as he could remember, it had always been just him and his mother. A small home at the edge of town, chipped walls, and lukewarm coffee simmering on a weary stove. A father? No. Absent. His mother was a teacher. Gentle hands, always tired, always kind. Eyes that looked like they had swallowed every sorrow imaginable. She was the one who taught Dan to read — and then, to write.

Dan hadn’t dreamed of becoming a writer. He wrote because he didn’t know how to speak. He poured everything he couldn’t say into ink. Nights of his youth passed under a dim desk lamp, with voices inside his head that slowly turned into stories.

As he grew up, he published books. Not for fame — but because each story felt like bleeding out a little of his own pain. His mother was always the first to read them, always with that soft smile that existed only for him.

But then, life turned cruel. One cold rainy night, a phone call came. Just one sentence: A severe stroke.

Dan had signed the papers himself. He’d let her go. That choice — it both saved him and broke him beyond repair.

He couldn’t bear the thought of her fading completely. So, he gave her heart away — hoping that somewhere, somehow, a part of her might still be alive, still beating. He hadn’t written since. He hadn’t smiled.

Two days had passed. Two days since a quiet heart had begun to beat again. Not in someone he knew — but in a fifteen-year-old boy whose name he hadn’t even heard.

Dan wandered through the white corridors of the hospital — aimless, hollow — until the doctor’s voice called gently from behind:

— "Would you like to meet him?"

Silence. A breath in. A breath out. Another. Then, Dan gave a small nod.

The doctor led him through narrow stairs to the back courtyard — a place where the hospital let itself breathe.

And there he was. Noah.

The boy with dusty pink hair, pale skin, and a quiet presence that didn’t need words. He sat on the ground, knees to his chest, his kitten near him,chalk-covered hands tracing shapes on the dirt — not out of joy, but as if to pull something from deep within.

Beside him, an empty wheelchair. And beneath his thin hospital shirt, white bandages peeked through — the mark of a wound made to keep him alive.

Dan stood, unsure, not knowing whether to step closer. But Noah looked up, and their eyes met. Those gray eyes — stormy, silent, old in ways a boy’s eyes shouldn’t be.

Dan opened his mouth — not quite ready, not quite steady.

But Noah’s voice came first. A whisper, soft and low, barely audible

— “This place isn’t for strangers.”