Cassian's Journal
October 16th
Not sure why I'm writing. Guess I just feel like I should.
Doctors say it won't be long now. A few weeks, maybe less. Doesn't really matter. I've known it was coming for a while. I've made peace with it, I think.
Thought maybe I'd write something down before it all ends.
I grew up in one of those big old houses you see in magazines. Fancy paintings, big staircases, staff in uniforms. Looked perfect on the outside. Wasn't.
My parents were rich. Old money. That kind of rich where you have family portraits and titles you never use. My dad was always busy with whatever business he was running. I barely saw him. My mum cared more about dresses and social events than… well, anything else.
They weren't bad people, just… distant. Cold. I don't think they ever really knew me.
So I was alone, mostly. Raised by the house staff—Patrick the butler, Elsie the maid, Mrs. Alder in the kitchen. They were kind. Quiet. Always there when I needed someone. I think they're the only reason I didn't turn out bitter.
I was a smart kid. School was easy. Too easy, really. Skipped a few years. I liked history the most. Ancient stuff. Lost cities. Forgotten stories. The kind of things no one talks about anymore.
Math came naturally too. Didn't like it much, but I was good at it.
Spent a lot of time reading. Played piano and violin. Not much else to do.
Went to Cambridge. Studied ancient history. Graduated. Parents died in a car crash not long after. I didn't cry.
I inherited everything. Big estate. Money. I gave most of it away. Kept what I needed. Let Patrick and the others stay on. I trusted them.
I used the money to travel. Old castles. Ruins. Loved those places. Standing in a stone hallway built a thousand years ago, just thinking about who walked there before me… it made me feel something. Like maybe I belonged somewhere.
I never really did, though.
No girlfriend. No close friends. Just a few people I talked to here and there. Nothing lasting.
Got sick when I was twenty-six. Doctors said it was leukemia. Didn't respond to treatment.
Now I'm twenty-nine, and this is it.
I'm not scared. Just… tired.
If I could ask for anything, it wouldn't be money or fame or some big dramatic goodbye.
I'd just want one more chance
A life where I'm not alone.
A life where I can actually live.
Maybe even… I don't know. Something with a bit of wonder in it.
Magic, maybe. Silly, I know.
Anyway. That's enough for today.
Or maybe forever.
—Cassian
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He set the pen down gently beside the notebook, hand trembling just a little from the effort. The cover closed with a soft thump, barely louder than the hum of the machines around him.
The room was quiet. Private. One of the VIP suites, tucked away in a corner of the hospital. It was decorated tastefully—neutral colors, soft lighting, a small table with flowers that were replaced every few days. They still smelled faintly sweet.
Outside the tall window, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and fading gold. It cast long shadows across the floor.
Cassian sat propped up slightly, thin and pale. His skin looked almost translucent, stretched over bones that had once been strong. The chemo had taken the rest—his hair, his strength, his voice.
He was tired. So tired.
With slow, deliberate effort, he laid back against the pillow. His breath caught once, then steadied. One last exhale.His eyes closed.
And with the dying light of the day…
Cassian's heart fell silent.