The sharp IV needle is a cold testament buried deep within the veins of the hand. Clatter, clatter—doctors, like white-clad knights, bustle about. A warmth like a flickering candle intrudes unsightly through the window. Patients, resembling soldiers in pure white, endure under the guise of treatment and the liquid medicine known as IV fluids. The kid from the pediatric ward, who said his lifelong wish was to step on the grass of the outside world just once, died of cancer yesterday. I think of the countless white chrysanthemums that will be laid before the child's portrait. The kid's wish was to step on grass, yet the floor of the funeral hall will be a dismal, dark brown. Tragically, even in the moment of leaving this world, the child could not fulfill that one lifelong wish. If I plucked grass and spread it all over the floor instead of white chrysanthemums, would a white butterfly come and circle around it? Could he step on the ground as much as he wanted, like a preschooler stepping on clouds for the first time? Despite it being early winter, a cold wind full of biting chill blows. I remember the day the kid left for the flower garden of the afterlife. If I searched the entire garden for the flowers of bone, breath, flesh, and life, would the kid sing the nursery rhymes he used to recite again? An early winter spring breeze blows.

Rattle. The hospital room door opens, revealing someone huddled in the corner of the bed, ruminating on loss. Their eyes are bloodshot from crying so much. I stare at you intently. Feeling the dripping IV fluid permeating my body, I give a light wave of my hand.