Once Peter stepped inside the hospital room, everything else faded.
The cold air, the polished floors, the weight of this cursed building—none of it mattered now.
His gaze landed on the frail figure lying in the bed.
She stirred slightly at the sound of the door and slowly turned her head toward him.
Then… her lips curled into a soft smile.
"Peter. You came!"
Peter stopped breathing for a second.
There she was.
His mother.
Alive.
His throat tightened as he took careful steps toward her, afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast.
She looked smaller than he remembered, like life had drained her strength, but her eyes… they still held that same gentle warmth.
He wanted to throw his arms around her, to pull her into the tightest embrace he could manage—but the frailty in her body made him pause.
So instead, he sank down beside her bed and gently reached out, taking her thin, cold hand into his own trembling grip.
"Mom…" His voice cracked as he whispered it.
"M—mum."
His eyes scanned her face, drinking in every detail.
That familiar curve of her lips, the faint wrinkle near her eyes, the kindness etched into her expression.
Her skin was pale, the sickness evident… but she was alive.
'She's real.'
'She's right in front of me.'
He couldn't believe it.
After all these years. After all the pain.
She wasn't a ghost anymore.
He felt a tear threaten to slip out, but he forced it back, not wanting to scare her.
'I have to be strong.'
'For her.'
His mother, Mrs. Kane, tilted her head slightly, surprised by his silence.
"Peter… what's wrong?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
She lifted her free hand and reached up to cup his cheek with surprising warmth.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You act like you haven't seen me in years."
'Because I haven't…' The words screamed in his head, but he couldn't say them.
How could he?
How do you explain to someone that they died in your past life?
That you've spent over a decade haunted by the guilt of not saving them?
So instead, Peter lowered his head until his forehead rested against her shoulder.
His arms moved gently around her, clinging without hurting.
She pulled him into a light embrace, stroking the back of his head the way she used to when he was a child.
"Are you okay?" She asked gently.
"I'm fine," he whispered, his voice cracking even as he said it.
"I'm just… glad to see you, Mom."
Her grip tightened, fragile but full of love.
"I'm always here, baby. I'm not going anywhere, okay? You've got to stop worrying like this."
Peter swallowed hard, but the rage was still simmering just beneath the surface.
"The staff here…" he started carefully, pulling back to look at her.
"They want you out, don't they?"
"Have they been mistreating you, Mom?"
There was a flicker in her eyes—hesitation—but then she gave him a reassuring smile.
"It's not perfect," she admitted gently, "but I'm still breathing, aren't I?"
"Compared to the pain, the fear of dying slowly in silence… this place gives me what I need."
"The medicine helps and that's enough for now."
"I'll be alright, Peter."
Peter's chest tightened as he sat beside her, listening to her gentle voice.
A familiar ache twisted inside him—the cruel kind that memory never quite lets you forget.
It had started around this time in his past life.
Just days after securing the internship at Wallace Group—when things were finally beginning to look up—his mother had collapsed at home.
One moment she was smiling, proud of her son; the next, she was crying in pain.
He started to panic and rushed her to the nearest clinic, hoping it was nothing serious.
But hope was short-lived.
The diagnosis had landed like a death sentence: 'Mitral Valve Prolapse.'
The doctor's words back then still echoed in his ears: "She has a faulty mitral valve, blood's leaking backward instead of flowing forward and her heart's weakening with every beat, so she needs an urgent valve replacement."
Peter remembered staring blankly as they explained it, trying to act like he understood, while inside he was breaking apart.
The clinic didn't have the specialists. Or the equipment. And so, with no other choice, he had brought her here.
'Collin's Hospital.'
The best hospital in the city. And the most expensive, too.
He'd hoped… foolishly, desperately hoped they'd treat her first and talk about money later.
But he remembered the moment the estimate for the valve replacement surgery landed in his hands.
It had felt heavier than a boulder.
His heart had sunk so far, he was sure it would never float back up again.
So he did what any desperate son would do.
He'd swallowed every ounce of pride and turned to the only place he had recently earned a position — the Wallace Group.
He had gone to Edward Wallace himself, still wearing his intern badge, heart pounding as he stood before the man in his sleek office, asking for help.
Not charity.
Just an advance on a salary he hadn't even started earning yet.
But Edward… had laughed.
He remembered that day like it had just happened.
"Advance pay? For what?"
"Because your peasant mother's about to croak?" he sneered.
"You think this company is a charity?"
"You're a beggar, Peter. That's all you'll ever be."
"A beggar hoping to milk sympathy."
"Now, Get out!"
"No one in this company gets early pay. Not now. Not ever."
It had taken everything in Peter not to explode. But the humiliation had already sunk its claws deep.
He had walked out of that office shaking, not just from rage, but from helplessness.
And so, the hospital had done what it always did with those who couldn't pay.
They discharged her.
Peter had taken her home, defeated, helpless… and one night, she had died in their home—alone, cold, and still—while he tried to find someone, anyone, who would help.
Her final breath had slipped from her lips while he wasn't even there to hold her hand.
He had knelt beside her lifeless body for hours, screaming into the silence.
Now, sitting in that same hospital room with her alive and speaking… it almost didn't feel real.
'This time… this time I won't fail you.'
Peter clenched her hand a little tighter.
"I'm going to fix everything, Mom," he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear.