Peter’s breathing slowed, his eyes half-closed. His pale face blended right in with the rest of the room - the white sheets, white walls, my white coat. I disposed of the needle, its weight feeling different in my hands. Pulling a chair to the bedside, I asked, “How are you feeling, Peter?”

His wrinkled face morphed into a smile as he whispered, “Never been better, Doc”.

Seconds of silence passed. I saw his smile falter and his face twist. “Everything alright?”, I asked.

His eyes shifted to me. “What happens when we die?”

I sighed and placed my hand over his. “I would like to believe we meet our loved ones again. But I am not sure, Peter.”

“Of course you’re not sure,” he huffed out a chuckle, “I’m the one on death’s door after all.” He fixed his eyes on a point behind me. “I can’t wait to see her.”

I could almost see the memories flooding in his eyes as they gently closed. Glancing at the monitor, I whispered, “Just hold that happy thought, Peter…”

She lied to him every night when tucking him in. As soon as the storybook closed, those wide, brown eyes would look up at her and she knew what he would ask. Stories about kings and knights weren’t enough for her boy, he wanted stories about him. So she spun exciting and animated tales, enough to spark his imagination. But that’s all they were, stories. The boy would never know what hid behind those memories, and she would keep lying to make sure of it.