The Greatest Showman #1111 - Come Back to Life

One thousand seventy-three—come back to life.

Dreams and reality have become hopelessly entangled, their boundaries lost. Renly's life, Chu Jiashu's life, the vastness of the universe, the suffocating confinement of a hospital bed—these contrasts blur together. The beauty of dreams, the cruelty of reality... everything is a chaotic mess. And in the middle of it all, he can no longer tell the difference:

To live, or to die? That is the only struggle within his soul. There are no dreams, no freedom, no hope left. What, then, is the difference between life and death?

Even his voice comes out slurred and muffled, words lost in a haze of drool. He cannot even shake his head in refusal. He doesn't want to live like this anymore.

And yet, even as he looks at the broken Ding Yanan, he cannot help but speak. The words keep spilling out, a jumbled mess, not even a coherent syllable:

"Yeah, so I'm a selfish bastard. I chose to give up. Not you. I gave up on you... I gave up on myself. Let me go. Please, let me go, okay? I'm so tired, I've been here too long. I don't want to stay stuck here forever. It shouldn't be like this. Things shouldn't be like this..."

Tears spill over as he looks at his mother, his gaze pleading, desperate. "Please, let me go. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry..."

His body coughs violently as if the very breath he takes is trying to escape him, as if it can't contain his grief.

Through hazy eyes, he stares at the familiar yet unfamiliar face in front of him. Memories he thought were fading start to resurface—one by one, they rush back, hidden in the corners of his mind.

He hasn't seen her in so long, but she hasn't aged. Her face still looks like it did in his memories, every wrinkle etched from the pain he caused. Her bloody fingers tear at his heart, a raw reminder of the sacrifices she made for him.

"Mom." The word escapes him with a sob, and his tears fall freely. "Let me go... please. Set me free."

And in setting him free, she, too, could finally embrace her own freedom. Death, as painful as it is, will one day come. Only if he leaves can she truly begin again.

After the braces are in place, for the first time, his voice is clear—but like a dagger, it pierces Ding Yanan's heart. Through his blurred vision, he sees her standing there, her face a mixture of shock and sorrow, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stands motionless, as if unsure of what to do.

They share a quiet look, neither of them willing to relent. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words. In the end, it is Ding Yanan who breaks. She shakes her head desperately, but her voice fails her. She can only leave, quickly, fleeing from the ward.

But he remains trapped, frozen in his hospital bed, unable to move. He watches her retreating figure until it disappears, his body completely unresponsive, as though he were nothing more than a puppet with its strings cut.

Even his vision begins to fade, and all he can see is the blur of his tears.

Is living like this really better than dying?

"You are a coward."

The words are soft, but they cut through the silence.

He turns, almost instinctively, to find the voice's source. Standing next to his hospital bed is a figure in a familiar hospital gown, the oversized clothes hanging loosely from thin shoulders—Heather Cross.

She looks like a shadow of the girl he once knew, her body wasting away, her muscles shrinking with each passing day. The clothes that once fit her now hang off her skeletal frame, a constant reminder of the slow march toward death.

Everyone knows it, but no one talks about it. They pretend it's not happening. They laugh, turn the sadness into jokes, but he knows—this is Heather. This is her reality, and this is his.

Heather is standing next to his bed, but the roles have reversed. Now, he is the one lying helplessly, and she is the one standing tall.

He can't believe it. He can't think. His brain is a fog, lost in the blur of reality and fantasy. What is real? What is a dream? And, most confusing of all—didn't Heather die?

Has he started to hallucinate?

He stares at her, his mouth slightly open, but no sound comes out. He reaches out to touch her cheek, but his body refuses to obey. Frustration floods him, quickly turning to anger.

Heather's eyes glisten with unshed tears. Slowly, she sits at the edge of his bed, her voice soft but firm:

"You know this is all just an excuse, right? You chose to give up. You pushed the blame onto everyone else. You told yourself you're freeing your family, but in reality, you just didn't want to keep fighting. You didn't want to keep living. You're a coward."

Her words hit him like a physical blow. But in her eyes, there's something bright—something full of life, like stars reflecting in her tears.

Before he knows it, his own eyes are damp, the tears falling freely now, and he closes his eyes to hide the vulnerability.

For a moment, he feels so exposed—like a newborn, all his defenses stripped away.

Then, a warm hand brushes his cheek, wiping away the tears. Heather's soft laugh follows. "This is the second time I've seen you like this."

He opens his eyes, confusion in his gaze.

Heather smiles, understanding without needing to explain. "The first time was in the hospital garden when you wrote 'The Beast.' You remember? In your music, I saw your vulnerability. That was when you became real."

She pauses, her expression softening as she remembers. "Before that, you were a perfect Prince Charming—every girl's crush. But after that day, everything changed. And it was supposed to be different, wasn't it?"

He freezes, a faint flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Heather shrugs, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "What? Can't a girl be bold about her crush? Besides, you've already seen my secret. No need to hide anything anymore. I'm not some perfect angel."

He laughs, a small chuckle escaping him, but it's the first genuine laugh he's had in what feels like forever.

For a moment, their laughter fills the room, light and carefree, but soon, silence settles between them. Their gazes lock—sadness, despair, and helplessness swell within them both, filling the space with their shared pain.

Heather breaks the silence, her voice gentle.

"I know... I know it's not easy. Believe me, I do. I know what it's like to see your fate, your end, so clearly, and still keep fighting. It's like chasing a dream that you can never quite reach. I know what it's like to choose to keep fighting, even when it seems impossible. And I also know how easy it is to just give up, how much less pain there is in surrendering. But the ones who haven't experienced it... they'll never truly understand."

Heather's smile is bittersweet, almost invisible. "We're all the same, aren't we?"

They exchange a quiet glance, a fleeting understanding passing between them. And in that moment, the vast universe seems small—just a piece of dust. Everything else, the pain, the struggles, they're all too large to fully grasp, yet so painfully real.

Through dreams, through reality... and through life and death, they have found each other again. Not as extraordinary dreamers, but as ordinary souls, fighting against the tide, looking for a moment of freedom, no matter how fleeting.

And even if it's only for a second, it's enough. There is no regret.

Heather falls silent again. The lessons she learned from him, she now offers back, waking him from his slumber. They are two sides of a mirror, seeing their true selves at last.

"Remember how it all started?" Heather asks with a smile. "Not just the war, not just the family burdens... but here, right here. When it all began—remember that first seed, when it first sprouted?"

He smiles back softly.

"Truman."

Yes, he remembers. He remembers it all.