I was standing inside the elevator that carried me directly toward that girl.
The hospital director's granddaughter.
For some reason, my thoughts kept drifting back to her.
A girl I had only met for a few minutes—
yet somehow, she refused to leave my mind.
Ding.
The elevator stopped.
The ninth floor.
The floor reserved for patients whose chances of survival were painfully low.
The doors slowly slid open.
And what stood before me…
was darkness.
Not because the lights were dim—
but because of the weight hanging in the air.
A heaviness that smelled like hopelessness.
It was rare for me to be assigned patients from the ninth floor.
Maybe because most families had already buried their hope before the patient was gone.
I stepped forward.
The hallway was nearly empty.
The only sound was the echo of my footsteps stretching through the silence.
Then suddenly—
I stopped.
I realized I didn't even know which room she was in.
A small wave of irritation hit me as I turned around to find a nurse—
but then—
a voice.
Soft.
Fragile.
Like a whisper barely holding itself together.
Not quiet enough to ignore.
Not loud enough to fully understand.
Without realizing it, I followed the sound.
Step by step, it became clearer.
Maybe because the door wasn't fully shut.
"Mom… you didn't come see me again today."
A child's voice.
Quiet.
But broken enough to make something inside my chest tighten.
It sounded familiar.
But not familiar enough to immediately recognize.
I was about to turn back—
when suddenly—
that scent.
Again.
That same sweet, Mediterranean floral fragrance.
Florence.
My eyes landed on a small paper taped beside the door.
Written in shaky handwriting with pencil:
"Florence blooms like a flower."
The moment I saw the name—
I knew.
I had found her.
I gently pushed the door open.
Warmth touched my skin.
Strange.
It felt like this room belonged to another world.
Unlike the cold hallway outside—
this place felt warm.
Alive.
And there she was.
The same girl.
Long chestnut hair.
Sitting on her bed, tightly holding a stuffed doll while quietly talking to it.
I froze for a moment.
So… she wasn't talking to her mother?
Then I remembered what her grandmother had said.
"Even her parents gave up on her…"
Something inside my chest ached.
Maybe because I understood too well—
what it meant to be abandoned in the hardest moment of your life.
But stranger than all of that—
was her smile.
She was still smiling.
Despite everything.
And somehow, that rooted curiosity deep inside me.
I wanted to ask something—
when suddenly—
"Ahhh! Aren't you the guy who was crying on the rooftop?"
She said loudly.
I quickly shut the door and looked at her seriously.
"Me? Crying?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Ahhh… doctors lie too?"
She grinned mischievously.
Like she knew far more than she was letting on.
I sighed.
"Alright, alright… but if you keep annoying your doctors this much, one day they'll leave you."
My gaze dropped to the floor as I said it.
But her answer—
made my chest tighten.
"I'm not worried."
Her smile widened.
"Everyone leaves eventually…"
She tilted her head slightly.
"Even if I don't annoy them."
Silence.
Then she smiled again.
"So maybe I should annoy them before they leave."
Her voice softened.
"Maybe then… they'll remember me."
My body froze.
In her eyes—
I saw loneliness.
The same loneliness I had once seen in someone else's eyes.
Souho.
Maybe that was the exact moment I decided—
I wouldn't leave her alone.
Not ever.
I walked closer and sat beside her bed.
"Well then, little troublemaker…"
I took out my stethoscope.
"Let me check on you first."
I listened to her heartbeat.
Too weak.
Weaker than it should've been.
I asked her to follow the light with her eyes.
Her pupil response was slower than normal.
"Do you get headaches?"
She nodded.
"Dizziness? Blurry vision?"
Another nod.
Her medical chart hadn't lied.
The tumor had progressed.
The slight tremble in her right hand.
The exhaustion beneath her eyes.
And that smile—
far too strong for a child.
Yet somehow—
she still smiled.
When the examination ended, I didn't leave.
I didn't want her to feel alone.
"What's your name?"
I asked.
Even though I already knew.
She laughed.
"Haha… doctors examine patients before learning their names?"
Then pointed toward the door.
"I wrote it there."
A smile slipped onto my lips.
"Your handwriting was too messy. I couldn't read it."
Her eyebrows furrowed immediately.
"Heyyy!"
She pouted.
I almost laughed again.
But changed the subject instead.
"Florence… I've got some fun games."
I leaned back in the chair.
"Want me to bring them tomorrow so we can play together?"
Her eyes sparkled.
"What games?"
"LittleBigPlanet… maybe?"
She stared at me for a few seconds.
"I don't want that."
I blinked.
"Why?"
With the most serious expression possible, she said:
"Because it has boy in the name."
For a second—
I just stared at her.
Then—
I laughed.
Louder than I had laughed in years.
Real laughter.
Without thinking.
Without pretending.
She started laughing too—
so hard she practically collapsed onto the bed.
"Hey! Are you okay?"
I leaned forward nervously.
"Did you faint?"
She sat back up, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
"Just…"
She tried catching her breath.
"I've never seen a clown smile this beautifully."
I looked at her.
And for the first time in years—
I realized something.
Maybe…
I still remembered how to smile.