CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LIVES LEFT BEHIND

The sun had not yet risen over the terracotta roofs of Florence when Dr. Lance Davis walked through the glass doors of Ospedale di Santa Lucia. The marble floors echoed under his shoes as he followed the signs to the neurosurgery wing. A few early risers—nurses in blue scrubs, an orderly pushing a gurney—nodded politely as he passed. His steps were steady, his eyes focused.

In the conference room, the team was already assembling. Maps of the brain, patient scans, and surgical schedules glowed on the projection screen. Lance spotted a familiar face by the espresso machine.

"Still living on caffeine, huh?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Dr. Matteo turned, grinning broadly. "You can't expect miracles from Italian hospital hours without espresso," he said, and the two embraced with a friendly clap on the back.

Matteo turned to the room. "Everyone, I want you to meet someone. This is Dr. Lance Davis. He's the founder of The Lily of Hope Oncology Centre in BrookeHurst and, in my opinion, one of the most brilliant neurosurgeons alive."

A murmur of recognition rippled through the room. A few younger doctors exchanged surprised glances; even one of the older surgeons leaned forward in his seat.

Lance gave a modest nod. "I'm here to help. Let's work as a team."

Matteo gestured to the screen, launching into the patient case. "Our patient is thirteen years old. Glioma located deep within the brainstem. Inoperable, until three months ago when her scans showed the margins had shifted slightly—just enough to attempt a full resection."

He pointed to the 3D render of the tumor. "The location means any slip could compromise breathing, mobility, or memory. So, we need absolute precision."

Dr. Romano, the attending neurosurgeon in Florence, leaned forward. "We've split the procedure into two teams. Dr. Davis will lead the extraction phase. We'll begin pre-op protocols tonight. Surgery starts at 4:30 AM sharp tomorrow."

Someone in the back whispered, "Didn't know we'd be operating alongside a legend."

Lance didn't react to the comment. His gaze was locked on the imaging on screen, mentally tracing every contour of the tumor. When questions opened, he stepped in with quiet confidence—suggesting a change in the patient's head positioning, a modification to their sedation protocol, a note on minimizing thermal damage near a vital cluster of nerves.

As the meeting wrapped up, the room settled into a more focused energy. No more side-chatter, no more nerves. Just the weight of what needed to be done.

Matteo clapped him on the shoulder as they stepped out. "Still feels like med school sometimes," he joked. "Only now the stakes are much higher."

Lance offered a quiet smile. "And the hours haven't changed."

After the main briefing ended, the attending surgeons and surgical residents filtered into the adjoining operating prep room. A stainless-steel table in the center held neatly organized folders, name tags, and pre-op forms. Lance stayed behind with Matteo, who motioned for him to meet the rest of the operating team.

"Lance, these are the people we'll be in the trenches with," Matteo said, ushering him into the circle.

First came Dr. Alessia, the anesthesiologist. Sharp-eyed, with a no-nonsense tone. "I've reviewed your published techniques on minimizing intracranial pressure spikes. I'll be following your lead on timing the sedation levels. Welcome aboard, Dr. Davis."

Then Dr. Ferraro, the lead scrub surgeon, extended a hand. "Bit surreal meeting you in person," he said, with an easy smile. "I've got your journal case study from 2014 bookmarked in my binder. But don't worry, I won't ask for an autograph until we're out of the OR."

Lance chuckled softly, appreciating the camaraderie forming around him.

Next were two residents—Chiara and Enzo—bright, capable, and clearly nervous but excited to be part of something major. Matteo gave them a reassuring nod. "Best way to learn is to stand next to the best."

Lance made eye contact with each one, listening as they introduced their roles, preferences in the OR, and specific areas of focus for the procedure. He made mental notes, connecting names with skill sets. This wasn't just about being skilled—it was about knowing how each piece moved within the whole.

After they wrapped up reviewing instrumentation and pre-op routines, Lance slipped off his gloves and shook hands one last time. "We've got something delicate on our hands tomorrow," he said, his tone level but encouraging. "Let's be precise, and let's be kind—to each other and to the patient."

Matteo walked him out to the elevator. "We'll handle everything tonight—get some rest while you can."

As the elevator doors slid closed, Lance exhaled. His shoulders loosened just a bit.

Outside, the sun was finally rising over Florence. The city was waking up—smells of espresso and warm bread drifted through the streets. Lance pulled out his phone and texted Lily:

"All set for tomorrow. Briefing went well. On my way back. Hope you're enjoying your first morning in Italy."

He tucked the phone into his coat pocket and started the walk back toward the hotel, where a different kind of warmth waited for him.

* * *

The hotel curtains did an excellent job of keeping out the morning sun, which explained why Lily didn't stir until nearly 11. She stretched slowly, her arms pushing the duvet away like it weighed nothing. The bed was too comfortable, the city too quiet, and for once, she had no looming deadlines. After a long shower and tossing on a flowy dress with a light cardigan, she finally stepped out onto the cobbled streets of Florence. The late morning air was warm, the kind that made you forget everything for a while. She wandered aimlessly, letting her feet decide her path.

It was down a narrow side street with green shutters and crumbling terra cotta planters that she stumbled upon a tiny café, half-hidden by blooming wisteria. A single round table sat just outside, empty. She took the seat like it had been waiting for her. Breakfast was a flaky cornetto with apricot jam, paired with cappuccino so smooth it melted the sleep right out of her bones. For a while, she just watched the world go by—locals chatting over espresso, a couple walking a golden retriever, bicycles lazily coasting past.

After her meal, Lily decided to keep walking. She passed an old bookstore with sun-bleached titles in the window and a church bell tower that peeked shyly over a canopy of rooftops. When she turned the corner and saw the full structure, she stopped in her tracks.

The church was modest in size but breathtaking in its aged beauty—carved stone angels perched on either side of the door, and high above them, a rose window that caught the sunlight like stained-glass fire.

It struck her, not with awe but familiarity.

She had seen this church before. Pain bloomed in her and feelings of despair and helplessness seemed to consume her, she had to reach for the nearest wall to steady herself. She didn't understand why. She needed space to breathe, she kept walking. The narrow streets opened into a garden-lined path, and before long, she reached a small lake. It wasn't grand—more like a reflective pool surrounded by marble benches and weeping trees—but the sight of it sent a chill up her arms.

She had seen this too.

She made her way to a worn wooden bench and sat down. Around her, birds chirped lazily, and a group of children laughed somewhere in the distance. But Lily's eyes were far away, staring into the lake's surface like it held answers.

Why does this feel like something I've already lived?

She had seen this. Not in real life—but in dreams.

Just as her thoughts began spiraling deeper, her phone buzzed.

Lance: "All set for tomorrow. Briefing went well. On my way back. Hope you're enjoying your first morning in Italy."

Her lips twitched into a smile, the weight in her chest lightening.

She started typing back, but paused a moment to glance at the lake again, then back at the church spire barely visible in the distance.

She smiled and began typing.

Lily: "The morning has been wonderful, thank you very much. I've been out exploring. Currently barefoot and sun-drunk in a park. Come meet me?"

A few seconds later, the three bouncing dots appeared on her screen.

Lance: "On my way. Text me the pin, dreamy girl."

She laughed softly, her thumb already moving to drop her location. Then she put her phone away and leaned back on the bench, letting her eyes flutter shut for a moment.

* * *

Lance found her just as she had described: barefoot, curled up on a bench beneath a tree with her hair catching flecks of light like wild gold threads. But she wasn't sun-drunk and smiling as he'd imagined. Her gaze was distant, anchored somewhere far from the present.

He stood there for a moment, watching her. The breeze tousled her hair gently, but she didn't move.

Then he stepped closer. "Something on your mind?"

Lily blinked, startled. Her eyes met his as if she were still coming back to the real world. "Lance…"

He took a seat beside her, close but not too close. "You looked miles away."

She didn't answer at first. Her eyes returned to the lake, the winding paths, the distant steeple of the church just barely visible over the trees. Then she exhaled and leaned into the truth.

"This morning… I went walking. I didn't have a map, just wandered," she began, her voice low and even. "I found a café, had this really lovely breakfast. And then… I saw a church. It was beautiful, old, tucked between the streets like a memory someone left behind."

Her fingers twisted in her skirt. "And I knew it. Not in the oh-it's-famous-I've-seen-pictures way. I knew it. The details, the way the light hit the stone, even the sound the steps made as I approached." She turned to him now. "Then I passed a park, this lake. And every part of it felt like something I've lived before… like I'd sat on this very bench, looked at the same birds. Like I belonged here once."

Lance's brows furrowed gently, but he didn't speak. He simply waited.

"I thought it was just déjà vu at first, but it was more than that," Lily whispered. "I've dreamt of this place. More than once. And you were in those dreams, too. Not just your face—your presence. You were there with me. Happy when I was happy. Sad when I wasn't."

She looked down at her lap, her voice breaking slightly. "Do you believe in past lives?"

Lance's expression didn't change. Just a long, quiet breath.

She continued, "Because if all of this is from a past life… if I've really lived before…" She paused; her eyes glassy. "Then what about all those other dreams I've had? The ones that always ended in grief. The helplessness. The sorrow. I always thought they were just my imagination—my writer's curse—but what if they were all real?"

Her voice cracked. "Why was I always tormented in every one of them?"

Lance was quiet for a long time. The wind moved through the trees above them, carrying the scent of earth and flowers. Birds chirped somewhere behind them; life unaware of the weight in her question.

She had been so weak back then, her fever leaving her barely able to walk. But she wanted to go. No, needed to.

He remembered her trembling hand in his as they climbed the cobbled path to the sanctuary. Locals had told them of miracles tied to that place—healings whispered from the lips of the desperate. He hadn't believed in such things. Not until her.

They lit a candle beneath the fresco of Saint Raphael, the patron of healing, and she had knelt, pale and gasping, whispering a prayer. Not for herself—but for him, so he wouldn't carry the grief again.

He had held her then, knowing it was too late. That no amount of prayer or pleading could undo what fate had already etched into the days ahead.

Lance swallowed hard, the present tugging him back as Lily turned to him with curious eyes.

Then he said softly, "Come here."

She looked at him, her brows still slightly knit in thought, but she shifted toward him. He opened his arm, and she slid under it, her head resting against his shoulder as he wrapped her in a gentle side hug.

"I do believe in past lives," he said, his voice low and steady. "I think the world is far too vast, too mysterious, for everything to be explained. Maybe souls really do find each other again. Maybe places hold echoes of who we used to be."

Lily closed her eyes.

"And if those dreams were pieces of your past," he continued, "then maybe you carried the weight of them so you could make something beautiful from it. You wrote those dreams into beautiful stories, Lily. You gave those lives the peace they didn't have."

He looked down at her then, brushing a thumb lightly over her knuckles.

"And look at you now," he murmured. "You're not just surviving this life—you're living it. Fully. Freely. With laughter and books and love." He smiled faintly. "And this version of you… deserves to be happy without feeling like she has to pay for the sorrow of lives before."

Lily leaned into his side a little more, quiet, thoughtful.

"So maybe don't try to make sense of it all right now," Lance whispered. "Just… be here. In this life. With me."

Lily's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Does that mean… I always left you behind?"

Lance's heart clenched. He looked at her—really looked at her. The way her eyes searched his face, filled with the weight of countless dreams and unspoken memories.

He cupped her cheek gently, brushing his thumb along her skin. "I would appreciate a single moment with you in any life," he said, his voice steady, tender. "And aren't we here now? Together?"

She blinked, and her eyes shimmered, but she smiled.

"Then that's what matters," he added, his forehead resting briefly against hers.

Lily nodded, the heaviness in her chest lifting just a little. They sat in silence a moment longer before she stood, tugging him up with her.

"Come on, Dr. Lance," she said, her smile returning. "Show me more of Florence before you become too famous to walk the streets without being recognized."

He laughed. "Only if we stop for gelato."

They wandered hand-in-hand through cobbled alleys, dipped into artisan shops, and shared laughter under warm, golden light. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, they made their way back to the hotel. Dinner was light but delicious—fresh pasta, warm bread, and wine that made Lily giggle at the smallest jokes.

The room welcomed them with the hush of drawn curtains and the soft scent of lavender wafting from the corner diffuser. Lily padded in slowly, her body heavy with exhaustion, while Lance flicked on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm, golden glow.

"I feel like I've aged ten years," Lily muttered, running a hand through her hair as she dropped her bag by the armchair.

"You look like you've aged maybe ten minutes," Lance teased gently, offering her a bottle of water from the minibar.

She took it gratefully and sipped, then disappeared into the bathroom with a quiet, "Give me a second."

While she was inside, Lance moved around the room with quiet purpose. He set out her pajamas at the edge of the bed, laid her book on the nightstand, and opened the window slightly to let in the cool night air. When Lily reemerged, her face washed and her hair loosely tied up, he handed her a warm towel he'd dampened for her neck and shoulders.

"You're spoiling me," she said, easing onto the bed.

"You're allowed to be spoiled. Doctor's orders."

She smiled at that, and once she had tucked herself under the blanket, Lance disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up. He splashed cold water on his face, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at his reflection for a beat—eyes sharp, jaw set, already slipping back into the focused rhythm of a surgeon on the eve of something critical.

When he stepped back out, Lily's eyes followed him, her voice quiet but certain. "You're not coming back tonight, are you?"

He shook his head. "Surgery starts at dawn. I'll be at the hospital all night—final scans, briefings, protocols. Everything has to be perfect."

She nodded and leaned back, the pillows embracing her with a hush. "Then promise me you'll at least breathe while you're at it."

"I'll breathe," he said, smiling as he knelt by the bed to remove her slippers and tuck the blanket around her more securely. "And you promise me you'll sleep."

"Deal."

Lance brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Goodnight, Lily. I'll see you on the other side of the sun."

She murmured something too soft to catch, already half-asleep, and Lance stood still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her breath. He then gathered his coat, quietly slipped out the door, and stepped into the night.