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.

The Blanket That Stayed

"Aw, my poor baby, did that scare you?" Skye cooed, gently stroking his dog's smooth fur. Then, as though finally tired, he ordered the bodyguards to let Ash go. Lifting his foot, he pressed it down hard on the boy's bruised face, wearing a look of false pity. "See? Even your mom doesn't want you anymore. How pitiful."

The elevator doors slowly slid shut, leaving only Ash's tiny body curled up on the cold tile floor.

I knelt beside him, knowing it was useless, yet still trying over and over to pull him into my arms. It didn't work—nothing did. Without Eira's orders, no one dared come near to save my child.

The blood at the corner of his lips had already dried. His eyelids fluttered, but he couldn't open them. Only the blanket in his arms made the faintest rustling sound through the thin plastic bag wrapped around it. The St. Christopher medal that once hung from his neck was gone—only a faint mark remained, proof that he'd once been someone's most precious treasure.

I didn't know how long I had knelt there, or how long I had cried. My chest had gone numb with pain, and my tears had all run dry.

Just when I thought everything was over, Eira came downstairs. The sharp click of her 5-inch heels echoed through the lobby.

She stopped in the center of the hall, her expression unreadable as she looked at the still little figure on the floor. "Still putting on a show? Is this what Howard taught you—how to fake sympathy? You really think that if you act pitiful enough, I'll soften up? Keep dreaming."

Each word cut through me like a blade, stabbing my soul again and again. I wanted to scream—how could she? How could she believe such cruelty of her own child? My boy was gentle, obedient, innocent… Tears spilled onto his face.

And then, maybe it was my imagination—but his eyelashes trembled.

Eira kept talking, but when she noticed no reaction from him, unease crept into her voice. She started walking closer, her heels clicking faster and faster. "Ash? Why aren't you saying anything? I already see through your act—stop pretending."

Her tone grew heavier with every word, her pace quicker with every step. Just as she reached him, Ash's small hand twitched. She froze, and confusion turned instantly into anger at being "deceived" again.

She pulled out her phone, snapped several photos of his back, and sent them to my phone. 'Howard Levine, you've really outdone yourself. Teaching your son to lie because you couldn't fool me yourself? Fine. Since you like playing pity games, let's see who breaks first.'

After sending the message, Eira hesitated for a long moment, then turned and walked away without looking back.

When silence returned to the hall, Ash slowly opened his eyes. He coughed again and again, each one wet with blood. When a droplet splattered onto the plastic bag in his arms, he suddenly came to. Struggling to his feet, he hugged the blanket tightly and smiled through his split lips.

Then, stumbling and swaying, he carried the blanket back to the hallway where my body lay. His small hand touched my cold skin, and he froze for a second before spreading the blanket over me with the last of his strength. "Here, Daddy. You won't be cold anymore once you've got the blanket."

And with that, he collapsed.

…

The next morning, a passing intern screamed, their voice echoing through the hospital. "Code Blue! Code Blue in the hallway!"

Hearing the commotion, Eira pushed through the gathered crowd, frowning. "What's all this noise? If you disturb Skye's recovery, every one of you—"

Her words stopped short.

She saw the man lying lifeless on the bed, and the little boy slumped over him, barely breathing—and her face turned ashen white.