CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE DREAM OF A LONGER LIFE
The soft hush of the night wrapped around Lily as she slept, curled under the fluffy blanket, the moonlight pooling like spilled silver across the bed. Her breathing evened out, slow and steady, the lingering warmth of Lance's presence clinging to her skin like an invisible thread tethering her heart to his.
And then, like mist rising from a hidden world, the dream unfurled.
She stood at the edge of an ancient square, the marble underfoot cool even through her worn sandals. The air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and sea salt. Bells tolled in the distance, their music folding into the cry of distant gulls. She knew this place — not from this life, but from another.
Italy.
The memory of it surged through her: the cobbled streets, the crumbling churches, the flickering candles that lined the shrines where the desperate came to pray. She remembered the ache in her chest, not just the sickness that gnawed at her body, but the greater fear — that once again, time was slipping away from her fingertips.
And there he was.
Lance, by her side, his hand warm around hers, as if trying to tether her to the earth by sheer will alone. He was younger in this life, his face less lined by responsibility, but the weight of worry still etched itself between his brows whenever he looked at her.
They had come here together, chasing a miracle.
In this life, she had remembered everything — the endless cycle of meeting him, loving him, and then leaving him behind, a ghost in his own life. Illness and unfortunate accidents had always been the thief that stole her away, just when the world between them began to bloom.
This time, she had begged the gods not to take her so soon.
They climbed narrow stone steps to a hillside chapel, their footsteps echoing in the silence. She had read about this place — a shrine to a forgotten saint known for healing the hopeless. A place people whispered about, saying that if you asked with your whole heart, sometimes — just sometimes — the universe listened.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and centuries of prayers. Kneeling before the altar, Lily bowed her head, tears slipping from the corners of her closed eyes.
Please, she whispered into the silence. Please, just this once. Let me stay. Let me have a life with him — a long, ordinary life. Let me grow old by his side. Let us have all the simple, beautiful things we dream about.
Beside her, Lance said nothing, but his hand found her back, steady, strong. His presence was a prayer in itself, his love a kind of faith that no tragedy had managed to crush, no matter how many lifetimes it had broken him.
Afterward, they sat on the worn stone steps outside the chapel, the sun dipping low over the valley. Lance took her hand again, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her skin.
"If you get better," he said, voice thick with unshed emotion, "let's stay. Let's move here. We'll learn Italian, get a little place by the coast. I'll mess up the language worse than you, but you'll laugh and correct me, and it'll be perfect."
She had laughed then, the sound fragile but real. "Promise?"
"I swear on every life we've ever had."
The dream shifted — time folding and curling like pages turning.
They were by a lake now, its surface a perfect mirror of the twilight sky. The air was cool and smelled faintly of wet earth and pine. She sat tucked against Lance's side, his arm draped around her shoulders, his forehead resting lightly against the top of her head.
No words passed between them — they didn't need them. The silence was full of everything they had ever wanted to say. That they were tired of goodbyes. That they wanted mornings and evenings and years. That they wanted a future, a forever.
The lake shimmered, blurred by mist or tears, Lily couldn't tell which. She felt herself slipping, as dreams do, the edges of the memory softening like wet ink.
As the image of Lance and the lake faded into the darkness, one final thought echoed in her heart, as fierce and fragile as a wish on a dying star:
Please, let me stay.
Lily woke with a sharp inhale, as if surfacing from deep water.
The room spun around her — bed, curtains, windows — blurring into smears of colour and light. A wave of light-headedness rolled through her, leaving her breathless, weightless, as if her body were only loosely tethered to the earth.
Before she could even sit up, the flashes began.
Like lightning behind closed eyes, images rained down on her mind — not dreams, not imagination, but something older, deeper, undeniable. Memory.
She saw herself again at the chapel steps, her thin hands folded in prayer.
She saw Lance's face, younger and less weary, smiling through the pain he thought he was hiding.
She saw the small rented room where the cracked plaster walls bled warmth under the Italian sun.
The way she coughed into her pillow at night, hiding the blood so he wouldn't see.
The way the lake looked, silver and endless, the way his hand tightened around hers as if he could anchor her soul inside her failing body.
Another flash — she remembered staggering slightly after leaving the church, dizzy from more than just tears.
A fever that bloomed in her bones.
The feeling that she was running out of time.
And then — nothing.
A blankness, like a torn page.
She never made it out of Italy.
The realization struck her like a physical blow. Her heart thundered against her ribs, a fragile thing fighting against memory.
That life — that desperate, hopeful life — had ended there.
Shortly after the prayer, after the promises, after all their fragile dreams.
A sob caught in her throat, dry and broken.
No wonder... No wonder Lance spoke Italian now.
He had learned it — for her, for the life they had planned and never got to live.
And she — she had always dreamed of learning Italian, always felt drawn to the language without knowing why.
It had been unfinished. A thread she had dropped when her hands went cold and her heart had stilled.
Incomplete.
Unfulfilled.
A love letter to a life that never had the chance to be written.
The ceiling blurred through the tears she hadn't realized were falling.
Her fingers curled into the sheets as the weight of it all pressed down on her chest — the lives they had lost, the promises they had whispered into the dark, the aching, unfinished yearning that spanned across lifetimes.
Somewhere inside her, in the part of her heart that always remembered even when her mind did not, a quiet vow unfurled:
This time, I'll stay.
This time, she would fight for the life that had been stolen too many times before.
For the mornings.
For the evenings.
For the soft, ordinary days.
For the chance to laugh and grow old beside him — in any country, in any language.
The light outside her window grew brighter, golden and insistent, pressing against the glass like a promise.
Lily wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pajamas and slowly pushed herself up from the bed.
Her head still spun, but beneath the dizziness, a quiet resolve steadied her.
Today was a new day.
A new chance.
Maybe the miracle they had prayed for so long ago was still waiting — not in some distant chapel, but here, in this life, in the quiet persistence of hope.
* * *
The halls of the Ospedale di Santa Lucia were silent as the surgical team gathered in the operating theatre long before sunrise. A solemnity hung in the air — not fear, but gravity. Everyone here knew the margin for error was razor-thin.
The clock read 4:21 AM.
Final preparations were already in motion: sterile drapes in place, monitoring leads connected, anaesthetic gases flowing in careful balance.
On the giant monitors above the table, the 3D render of the girl's tumour rotated slowly — an ominous, alien bloom lodged deep within her brainstem.
"Patient stable," the anaesthesiologist reported softly.
Matteo, standing at the ready, gave a crisp nod. "Begin."
Lance Davis moved into position, his hands gloved and steady, his mind a sharp, focused blade.
The sterile field enclosed him like a sanctum.
Under the bright surgical lights, every detail was magnified: the shimmer of instruments, the fine tremble of microfibers, the nearly invisible pulse of arterial blood.
"Incision," Lance said.
Enzo passed him the scalpel without a word.
The first cut was made with the kind of precision that years of experience had honed to instinct.
A thin line across the girl's nape.
Layer after layer of delicate dissection — each movement slow, controlled, almost reverent.
The skull was opened, exposing the fortress of bone that guarded the brain.
The microscope descended like an eye from the ceiling, locking onto the hidden battlefield.
As he peered through the lenses, Lance felt the rest of the world fall away:
No sound, no fatigue, no memory of the weight he carried — only the narrow, intricate universe beneath his hands.
Matteo and Romano worked seamlessly at his side, retracting tissues, adjusting the navigation system, offering quiet confirmations.
At 5:13 AM, Lance reached the critical stage.
The tumour loomed into view under magnification — a mass of ugly grey against the fragile pink of the brainstem.
The slightest miscalculation could mean respiratory failure.
The tiniest misstep could erase the girl's ability to walk, to speak, to remember her own name.
"Low temp cautery," Lance requested.
The instrument was placed into his palm.
With infinitesimal movements, he began to peel the tumour from the vital structures — pushing it free without tearing, separating it like silk snagged on thorns.
Time ceased to matter.
5:30 AM.
6:00 AM.
6:45 AM.
Outside the ancient hospital walls, Florence remained dark, the city still dreaming.
Inside, they fought in utter silence for every millimetre.
"Margin clear at three o'clock," Romano breathed.
"Bleeder at seven," Matteo murmured.
"I see it," Lance said, already adjusting.
By 7:20 AM, the tumour was nearly free — but a stubborn cluster clung dangerously close to the ventral nerve cluster.
Sweat stung Lance's brow beneath his cap, but he didn't flinch.
With a breath so shallow it barely disturbed the air; he shifted his wrist by less than a millimetre.
A final, delicate maneuver.
A whisper of release.
"Specimen free," Romano confirmed, his voice thick with awe.
The tumour was lifted out and sealed into the specimen container.
It looked so small now — an ugly, fragile thing — compared to the vast cost it had exacted from a young girl's life.
A chorus of low, relieved breaths filled the room.
Lance didn't allow himself more than a heartbeat of satisfaction.
"Let's close."
As they sutured the dura, replaced the skull fragment, and meticulously closed the skin, the first hints of dawn bled into the sky outside the operating room's high windows.
Golden light washed over the sterile field, touching the girl's face, casting the whole scene into something almost sacred.
At 9:03 AM, the surgery officially ended.
"Extubate in PACU. Monitor ICP closely," Lance instructed quietly, stepping back from the table.
He stripped off his gloves, feeling the ache in his hands only now that the work was done.
The ache of hours — no, lifetimes — of carrying the hope that this time, a life could be saved.
As the team wheeled the girl toward recovery, Lance lingered for a moment behind the glass — watching her fragile chest rise and fall under the ventilator's care.
The OR was quiet now, the sterile lights dimmed to a softer glow.
The buzz of adrenaline had faded, leaving behind only a heavy, focused fatigue.
Lance stood at the scrub sink, peeling off the last layer of tape from his wrists.
His reflection in the mirror looked gaunt, drawn — but his eyes were sharp, clear.
Behind him, Matteo approached, pulling his surgical mask down to his neck.
There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a tired but genuine smile on his face.
"Magnifico," Matteo said in a low voice, the word almost reverent.
"We couldn't have dreamed for a better extraction."
Lance offered a tired smile. "It was a team effort."
Romano joined them, shaking out his stiff shoulders. "She's young. Strong. With this kind of resection, her chances have tripled overnight."
Matteo nodded. "We'll keep her sedated for another twelve hours, allow her brain to rest before we wean her off the ventilator."
Romano added, "We'll monitor for swelling. ICP spikes, possible brainstem irritation...the usual tightrope."
Lance dried his hands carefully. "If it flares, hypertonics first. Ventriculostomy only if absolutely necessary."
Matteo grimaced. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
There was a moment of heavy silence.
They all knew: even a flawless surgery was only the first half of the war.
Healing, especially in such delicate terrain, was unpredictable.
Romano turned to Lance with a respectful incline of his head.
"You'll be staying for the post-op course, then?"
Lance gave a brief nod. "Yes. I'll stay until she's stable."
They had launched a tough battle today against the glioma, a fight fought with steady hands, sharp minds, and every ounce of knowledge they had. Lance wasn't ready to walk away just yet. He needed to see with his own eyes that everything was going as it should before entrusting her fully into the capable hands of Matteo and Dr. Romano. It wasn't just professional obligation; it was personal. He needed to see her through the critical hours before he could let himself leave.
Matteo clapped him gently on the shoulder. "We're glad to have you with us, Dottore. She's in the best hands."
"Let's take good care of her," Lance said quietly, meaning every word.
Romano gave a tight nod. "We will. You have my word."
As the team moved to transfer the patient to recovery, Lance stepped aside into a quiet alcove. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the familiar name before pressing call.
It rang once before Lily answered, her voice soft and a little hoarse, as if she'd been crying or had just woken from a troubled sleep.
"Hey..."
"Hey," Lance said, immediately gentling his tone. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
There was a pause, a rustle — maybe she was sitting up.
"No. I was awake. Just... slow morning," she said, trying for lightness but not quite making it.
Lance leaned against the wall, letting his forehead rest briefly against the cool plaster.
"I just wanted to let you know — I'll be held up all day. Surgery went well, but I'm staying through post-op to make sure everything's stable."
Another silence, but this time it was weighted differently.
"That's good. You should stay." Her voice was steadier now, but still fragile at the edges. "You'd worry otherwise."
"You know me too well." He smiled faintly, even though she couldn't see it.
"I'll call you again tonight when I'm done, okay? Maybe we can plan something for tomorrow."
"I'd like that," she said, voice barely above a whisper. Then, after a beat, "Be safe."
"You too," Lance murmured.
There was so much he wanted to say — about how he hated being even a few miles away when she sounded like this, about how much he wanted to be there — but there wasn't time.
Not yet.
Reluctantly, he ended the call, pocketing his phone and pushing off the wall. He hoped what they did today would make a difference in the direction the girls life took.