"It is such a secret place, the land of tears."
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Gawin was seven the first time he met Death.

It wasn't a dream, nor one of the nurse's whispered threats when he refused to take his medicine.
Death came for real—made of flesh, or shadow, or something unnamed.

It was a whiteout day of rain.
He was in his fourth-floor hospital room—the one he knew so well he could find the nasal spray, the frayed comic book, and the crooked cat poster on the left wall with his eyes closed.

Rain fell softly, like IV drips.
And just when his heart felt a little too slow, Death arrived.

No sound.
No greeting.
Just—when Gawin opened his eyes, he was already there, standing in the far corner near the fogged-up window.

So tall he had to tilt his head not to hit the ceiling.
Cloaked in black that trailed on the floor.
No face. No feet. No signs of life.

Gawin wasn't scared.
He'd grown used to heart palpitations, to machines that beeped too fast, and to the idea of dying.

Death was like an old friend who never spoke—always near, never touching.

This one was the same.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't come closer.

Gawin thought it was a dream, and turned his face to the wall. But when he looked back, Death was still there.

And then, in a slow motion like even time held its breath, he raised one hand—
and drew something on the frost-covered glass.

Gawin couldn't make it out at first.
Not until the clouds thinned and light filtered through.

A cat.
Clumsy lines, but unmistakable.
Pointed ears, little whiskers, and a tail curled like it was sleeping.

Gawin exhaled—soft, not from fear.
But wonder.

Death didn't take anything.
He just... drew a cat.

After that, Gawin saw him more often.

During high fevers.
When his heart stumbled and the doctors rushed in.
On nights when his mother stayed awake, afraid he'd slip away in silence.

He was there.
In the corner.
Behind the curtain.
Next to the monitor.
Always quiet. Always watching. Always still.

Gawin never told anyone.
Because no one would believe that a seven-year-old stuck in the cardiac ward saw Death drawing cats on frosted windows.

And maybe...
Even Gawin wasn't sure it was real.

But each time he saw him, he kept living.

Not dying.
But not quite alive, either.

When Gawin turned ten, a nurse asked him:

"Gawin, why do you draw cats on the window every morning?"

"Because if I can still see the frost,
it means I'm still alive."

He didn't look up when he answered.

She just laughed, patted his head, and said he was funny.
But Gawin knew—
every cat was proof that Death hadn't come.

Or had come—
but hadn't taken him yet.

At fifteen, he was finally wheeled outside after a full year of being bedridden.
Not far—just to the hospital garden where the cherry trees had begun to bloom.

He sat in his wheelchair, wrapped in a light blanket, watching the petals fall.

There was no wind.
But one blossom still drifted down into his hair.

He reached up to brush it off—
but someone else got there first.

He looked up and saw a man.

Tall.
Lean.
Long black hair.
Eyes as deep as the sky before a storm.

The man bent forward, plucked the blossom from Gawin's hair, and smiled.

"Cherry blossoms always fall where they want to be seen."

"Who are you?" Gawin asked, cautious.

The man sat on the bench beside him, elbows on his knees, eyes not on Gawin but on the faraway trees.

"I'm visiting someone. In the cardiac wing."

"Same.
Except... I'm the one staying."

The man laughed.
Soft.
The kind of laugh you learn when you've lived too long to waste any joy.

"Then I guess we have something in common."

Gawin didn't recognize him.
Didn't connect him to the shadow in black.

He just thought—he was strange.
He spoke with his eyes.
And his silence was gentle.

Gawin didn't know this was the first time
Death had stepped into the light.

And instead of taking his soul—
he chose to brush a blossom
from Gawin's hair.