"Some people arrive and make such a beautiful impact on your life, you can barely remember what life was like without them."
— Anna Taylor

I returned to the old hospital in October.

The wind had begun slipping through half-shut windows, and the rain no longer fell like a gentle story — it slapped your face like a reminder:
"The old season is gone."

I wasn't here to be treated anymore.

I came back... to sit with those learning to stand beside the line I'd once spent most of my childhood near.

⸻

They called me a special volunteer — not because I could insert IVs, change bandages, or fold sheets perfectly.

But because I knew how to sit beside a child who wasn't sure they'd make it to next week —
and not say something useless like "You'll be okay."

I just sat there.
Sometimes I told stories.
Sometimes I simply held their tiny hand as it trembled.

⸻

There was a six-year-old girl named Mint.
Big eyes. Pale skin. A heart condition worse than mine had ever been.

She asked me one day:

"Uncle, how did you survive?"

I smiled.

"Because someone chose to leave in my place."

Mint tilted her head.

"Like a prince in a fairytale?"

I shook my head.

"No. He wasn't a prince.
Not a hero either."

I pointed to the foggy window.

"He was just someone... no one believed was real."

⸻

The kids began liking my stories.
Not fairytales.
But the tale of "the man in black who drew cats on glass."

I never gave him a name.
Just said,
"When I was little, there was this very tall man. Every time I was close to giving up, he'd show up in the corner of my room... and draw a cat on the fogged-up window. And I'd keep living."

Mint asked:

"Where is he now?"

I smiled:

"Gone."

"Forever?"

I nodded. Softly.

"But if you draw a cat each morning... maybe he'll pass by.
He won't say anything. He won't leave a trace.
But he'll be there."

⸻

The next morning, I saw Mint draw a cat — a very crooked one — on the window beside her bed.

One ear flopped. The tail stuck out of the frame.

I laughed:

"That's the ugliest cat I've ever seen."

Mint pouted:

"It's cute in its own way."

I chuckled.

A week later, every room in the children's ward had little smudged cat drawings on the windows each morning.

⸻

One day, Mint had a high fever.

They called me in urgently — her breathing had slowed, lips turned blue, the doctors didn't look hopeful.

I sat by her bed, unsure what to do.
So I just held her hand.

Her palms were sweaty. Her tiny body lay motionless.

Then Mint opened her eyes. Looked at me. Whispered:

"This morning... I saw him."

"Saw who?"

"A man outside the window.
Really tall. No face. Holding an umbrella.
He didn't knock. Just stood there.
But I saw him clearly."

I froze.
Couldn't breathe.

Mint closed her eyes again. Whispered:

"He probably visited me... because I drew the cat really well, right?"

⸻

I didn't say a word.

Didn't nod.
Didn't shake my head.
Just squeezed her hand tighter.

Because I knew...
Joss was gone.

I'd seen him disappear — unable to be reborn, to return, to exist in any form.

But I also knew...

When love is strong enough,
it leaves traces in this world.

Like a shadow on misted glass.
Like a hint of lavender when no one's wearing perfume.
Like a six-year-old drawing the exact same cat I once drew at age seven — though I'd never taught her a single stroke.

⸻

That night, I wrote in my journal:

"I no longer need you to be here,
because you live in my hand every time I draw,
in my eyes each time I see a fear that someone won't speak,
and in the smile of a child who's never met Death —
but still believes he's a good person."

⸻

When Mint got better, she asked:

"Uncle Gawin, who was that man?"

I thought for a while.
Then answered:

"Someone who once existed,
but left nothing behind except... kindness."

"Does anyone believe he was real?"

I looked at her.
At the smudged cat drawings across the windows.
At the umbrella on the armrest beside me.
At my chest — still beating, even if weak, even if slow.

And I said:

"One person.
Me."