The Valley of Ashes

The silence started on Tuesday.

Leo sent a morning text: *Nurse Brenda is wearing the cat scrubs again. Prepare yourself.*

No reply.

By noon: *Hey, did you die of boredom? Or did they find your stash of contraband salt packets?*

Delivered. Not read.

By 4:00 PM, the silence was a physical weight in Leo’s gut, heavier than the cast on his leg. Raf replied instantly. Always. He had nowhere else to be.

Leo tried to read *Gatsby*, but the words swam. Panic, irrational and sharp, spiked in his chest.

"Brenda," Leo asked when she came in to change his IV. "The West Wing... fourth floor. What ward is that?"

Brenda checked the drip. "West Wing? That’s Cardiac and Thoracic. Heavy stuff. Why?"

Cardiac.

Leo’s blood ran cold. *The cello. The lack of exertion. The fear of thunderstorms/MRIs.*

"I need to go for a walk," Leo said, grabbing his crutches.

"Leo, you’re supposed to keep it elevated—"

"I need to walk, Brenda. Please."

She saw the look in his eyes—the desperation. She sighed. "Thirty minutes. If Dr. Evans catches you, I’m claiming amnesia."

Leo moved as fast as his crutches allowed. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles. He navigated the connection bridge between the East and West wings, the air getting colder, the smell of antiseptic sharper.

Cardiac was quieter than Orthopedics. There were fewer visitors. More machines. The beeping was constant, a rhythmic reminder of fragility.

He counted the doors. Four from the left.

Room 412.

The door was open.

Leo stopped. He leaned heavily on his crutch, peering inside.

The room was full of flowers. Sketchpads were scattered on the table. And there, lying in the bed, was a boy who looked nothing like the vibrant text messages suggested.

Raf was slight, his skin pale against the white sheets. Dark curls were plastered to his forehead. He was hooked up to an array of monitors that blinked and chirped. A nasal cannula fed him oxygen.

He looked exhausted. He looked... sick.

Raf turned his head. His eyes—warm, honey-brown eyes—widened when he saw Leo standing in the doorway.

"Leo?" he rasped.

Leo hobbled in. "You didn't text back."

Raf managed a weak smile. "My hands were a little busy. Being poked with needles."

"Cardiac," Leo said, the word heavy. "You’re in Cardiac."

Raf sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. I’m waiting for a valve repair. It’s... routine. Sort of."

"You called this place an Airbnb," Leo accused gently, moving closer.

"Better than calling it a waiting room for the morgue," Raf said. The humor was there, but it was brittle.

Leo reached out and took Raf’s hand. It was cold. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because," Raf whispered, squeezing Leo’s fingers. "When I’m texting you, I’m not the heart defect kid. I’m just Gatsby. I’m just a guy talking to a cute architecture student. I wanted to be real for a week."

"You are real," Leo said. He looked at the monitors, the jagged lines tracing Raf’s heartbeat. "You’re the most real thing in this place."

Raf closed his eyes. "Surgery is in two days. Thursday. I’m... Leo, I’m terrified. I’ve lived twenty years inside hospitals. I’ve never even been to a real college party. I’ve never kissed anyone in the rain. I’m scared I’m going to go under anesthesia and never wake up, and my whole life will have been just... this room."

The confession hung in the air, devastating and raw.

Leo looked at the window. He looked at the distant copper dome of the Observatory on the hill.

"You like stars, right?" Leo asked suddenly.

Raf blinked. "What?"

"The Observatory. You said you could see it. You wanted to go."

"Yeah, but—"

"Thursday," Leo said firmly. "Before your surgery. We’re going."

"Leo, we can't. We’re attached to machines. You can’t walk."

"I’m an architect," Leo grinned, though his heart was pounding. "I know how to build a structure. And I know how to find an exit."