After being forced to give my wife's first love my heart, I died in the hallway of the private hospital she had personally founded.

My six-year-old son, Ash, had already begged her thrice by the time I had drawn my last breath.

The first time was when he tugged on her hand, saying I was coughing up blood. Sneering, she claimed, "So he's finally learned something—teaching his kid how to lie." Then, she had the bodyguards throw him out of the room.

The second time was when he clung to her sleeve, insisting that I rambled nonsense due to the pain. "It's just a heart transplant," she opined with a frown. "The doctor already said he won't die."

At that, the bodyguards stepped in again and dragged him away.

The third time was when he fell to the ground, clutching her pant leg with all his strength, crying that I had already passed out. She finally lost her temper by this point, grabbing Ash by the throat and hurling him out of the room.

"I have already said it—Howard isn't going to die. Dare to disturb Skye's rest again, and I'll throw both of you out of this hospital," she warned.

To save me, my son pawned the most precious thing he owned—his St. Christopher medal—to a nurse. "Ma'am," he said. "I don't need to live a long life. I just want my dad to live."

She accepted the medal and was about to arrange for me to be transferred to the last available room.

However, my wife's first love, Skye Whitley, had someone block the doorway with his pet dog. He mentioned, "Sorry, kid. Your mom's worried I'll get bored if I can't see my dog. This room is reserved for him."

The Last Room

To make room for Skye Whitley's dog, my hospital bed had been pushed out into the hallway.

When the door to the ward shut, my son was still clutching the St. Christopher medal he had just given away. His tiny fists were already bruised purple, but he pounded the door again and again. "Mister, please give my dad back the room! Mister, please, I'm begging you, open the door!"

His young voice echoed down the hallway, but it couldn't reach Skye, who was inside playing with his dog. The louder Ash cried, the more entertained Skye seemed. "Good boy, don't pay attention to the trash outside."

Ash's voice grew hoarse. He was once the kind of child who would cry for a hug if he scraped his knee. Now, he just used the hem of his shirt to wipe the blood seeping from his fists. With tears in his eyes, he gritted out, "You big bully! This room was mine, I traded my St. Christopher medal for it! How can you steal it just to keep your dog here? You're a big bully!"

His voice had grown so raw it was barely understandable, even his accusations fragile and breaking. I lay on the bed in the hallway, my tears running together with the blood.

'I'm sorry, Ash. I couldn't protect you,' I silently apologized. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

But no one opened the door. Ash stumbled back to my bed, his eyes swollen and red. "Daddy, I'm sorry. I'm useless. I let the bad guy steal your room. Daddy, I'm sorry."

I could feel my life draining away. I knew I was close to the end, but I didn't want to scare him. Forcing the last of my strength into a smile, I whispered, "Ash, I'm feeling a little cold. Can you get me a blanket?"

He froze for two seconds, then quickly wiped his tears and nodded again and again. "Okay! I'll get you a blanket right now. Daddy, you have to wait for me, okay? You have to wait!"

I watched his small figure running down the hall, and slowly, I closed my eyes. "Ash, I'm sorry. I can't wait."

…

The next time I opened them, I was no longer alive. I was a soul, following my son.

Ash was smart. He knew the walk home was too far, so when he spotted an open room, he darted inside.

Another young man lay on the bed. His wife was gently tucking the blanket around him, making sure not a single corner was left uncovered. Beside them stood a five-year-old boy holding a cup of warm water, calling "Daddy" in the sweetest voice.

For some reason, Ash's eyes welled up again, but he didn't let himself cry. He still had to borrow a blanket for his dad.

Borrowed Warmth

The young couple inside the room was startled. The woman gently brushed the dust off my boy and asked in a soft voice, "Little one, are you all right? Where's your father?"

Ash nervously picked at his small hands and mustered his courage. "Ma'am, my dad is sick. He's very cold right now. Could you lend me a blanket? I can trade you my St. Christopher medal for it. Please help my dad, okay?"

The woman hesitated for a moment, then hurried to a cabinet and took out an unopened blanket, handing it to him. "Take it. I hope your father gets well soon."

Maybe that night had already worn him thin; faced with a stranger's kindness, Ash suddenly couldn't speak. He hugged the blanket tight and bowed over and over. "Thank you, Ma'am. Thank you, Mister. Thank you so much."

The woman waved him off and stopped him from continuing. "Don't thank me. We didn't buy the blanket. It was from the hospital's founder, Ms. Chase—she gave one to every patient's family after her partner's surgery went well.

"See? There's even a photo of her and her partner on it. If you really want to show thanks, wish Ms. Chase and her partner a long, happy life together."

Ash froze. The image of Eira Chase throwing him out of the ward flashed through his head, and then the memory of the other Eira—when she used to hold him and run laughing across the grass—came back. Tears spilled over.

"I know. I'll thank Ms. Chase properly," he whispered.

The ache in my chest felt sharper than it had on the operating table.

I remembered how, once upon a time, Eira had loved me and our son. She had stayed up nights picking names for him, bought out every toy store in town for his birthday gifts, and read childish fairy tales to him while I lay feverish.

Then, Skye had returned to the country, and everything ended. He had used his heart condition to set traps for us again and again—playing helpless and pitiful to win Eira's sympathy, then tempting our son to hide a caterpillar in his bed so he could stage an attack and let Eira walk in on it. After that, nothing had been the same.

Inside the ward, the woman nodded with relief and asked, "By the way, where is your mother? Why isn't she with you?"

Ash looked down; his tears fell onto the plastic sleeve covering the smiling photo of Eira and Skye on the blanket. His voice was barely audible. "My mother… she died."

After thanking the kind couple, Ash ran back toward the hospital lobby clutching the precious blanket. He nearly collided with Skye, who was carrying his little dog. Skye's face twisted with contempt—his cheeks flushed, his brow knitting. "Get out of the way, you little bastard. Do you know how expensive this outfit is? Selling you wouldn't even cover the cost of dirtying them! Just like your dad—filthy scum."

Skye's face darkened as he booted my boy down, ignoring the bruise on my boy's head. Ash landed on the floor, the blanket flying from his arms. Pain didn't slow him down—he reached for the blanket, but Skye stamped down and ground his heel into my son's hand, towering over him with a menacing look.

"Listen, you little bastard. If you dare show up looking pitiful in front of Eira again, I'll have you and your lowborn father thrown out. Do you hear me?" His eyes were cold as if he wanted Ash to vanish forever.

Rage and heartbreak crashed through me like a tidal wave, nearly drowning me. I forced myself to move, trying to pull Skye's foot away and yelling at him. 'Let go of my child! Take it out on me if you must! Don't hurt my son!'

I shouted and shouted, but Skye didn't hear a word. He seemed to relish the pink flush of pain in Ash's face and pressed down even harder.

A Father's Helpless Rage

Ash's arm began to twitch uncontrollably, but he refused to cry. He lifted his swollen eyes and glared fiercely at the impeccably dressed Skye Whitley. "My dad's not a scum. He's the best dad in the whole world. You're the bad guy—I won't let you hurt him!" Then he bit down hard on Skye's leg, thinking it would make him pull away.

Already furious, Skye completely lost his temper. He kicked out with his leather shoe, driving it hard into Ash's fragile stomach. "You little bastard!"

I roared and threw myself forward, desperate to shield my son, but he passed straight through me and slammed into the wall, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Even then, he didn't cry. He stubbornly stretched out his small hand, groping across the floor. "B-Blanket… Daddy needs a blanket…"

Skye wasn't finished. He set down the dog in his arms and stepped toward Ash, raising his hand for another blow.

"Skye?"

Eira's shocked voice suddenly rang out, freezing everyone in place.

Ash's dim eyes lit up instantly. He parted his bloodied lips and whispered, "Mom…"

Eira hurried forward, but Skye turned and blocked her with an outstretched arm. "Eira, I was just looking for you."

He gestured for the bodyguards to stand in front of Ash, then pulled Eira into his embrace with a practiced smile. Eira frowned, sensing something was wrong. "Skye, is that Ash on the floor? Did you hit him?"

A flash crossed Skye's eyes before he forced tears into them. "Eira, I'm sorry. You weren't here, and Ash… I don't know who put him up to it, but he came to the ward and yelled at me for a long time. I didn't want to argue, but then he suddenly rammed into me for no reason. You know I just had surgery. The doctor said…"

Eira turned grim, and her suspicion turned into anger. "Howard really doesn't know how to raise a child anymore. You're already in fragile health. If he causes you any lasting harm, I won't let them off."

I stood in front of Eira, frantically trying to explain. 'No, Ash didn't do anything! He's a good boy! Skye's lying to you!'

Ash seemed to hear her words too. Despite the pain, he called out, "Mom–"

Alas, the bodyguard clamped a hand over his mouth before he could barely begin.

Eira froze mid-step, glancing back. "Was that Ash calling me?"

Skye's face twisted briefly before he let go of her arm with a pained sigh. "Go to him if you want. I'm fine. Even though he was the reason I had that heart attack before—almost cost me my life—I forgive him. He's just a child."

His words erased the last trace of hesitation in her eyes. Eira's voice turned cold. "Since his father can't teach him, Skye, I'll leave the discipline to you. Spare the rod, spoil the child. If you don't correct him now, Howard will only raise him worse. I'll wait for you upstairs."

As she walked away, Ash began struggling harder, but it only earned him more slaps. Skye struck him again and again—his tiny face swollen, his lips split and bleeding. Still, he clung stubbornly to the blanket in his arms.

Still not finished, Skye dragged a sharp nail across the corner of Ash's eye. "Little bastard. Just as filthy as your father."

I went mad. I tried to choke him, but my hands passed through him. I dropped to my knees, banging my head against the floor, begging him to show mercy, to remember that Ash was only a child. But nothing worked.

Hatred burned through me—hatred for Skye, hatred for my own helplessness, hatred for dying too soon to protect my son.

The beating didn't stop until Skye's dog finally barked.