When Lily arrived at the Lily of Hope Oncology Centre two days later, she carried with her a notebook, a half-finished chapter, and a hopeful heart.
Dr. Lance met her in the consultation room. He wasn't in a coat this time—just a navy sweater and slacks. He looked at her with an expression that was both calm and deeply human.
"Hey, Lily," he greeted, offering a small smile.
She smiled back, eyes searching his. "Is it bad news?"
He paused, then gestured for her to sit. Her father was there too, his expression shifting immediately to worry.
Lance folded his hands in front of him. "The results show a small mass in your abdomen. It's not large, and it doesn't immediately scream anything dangerous—but it's not something we can ignore."
Lily blinked, processing the words.
Her father's hand found hers.
"What kind of mass?" she asked, voice steady.
"We can't say for sure yet," Lance said gently. "We need to run a biopsy. That will tell us whether it's benign or something we need to treat more aggressively."
The air shifted. It wasn't panic—it was more like the hush before a storm.
Lily nodded slowly. "And then what?"
Lance looked her in the eye. "Then we make a plan. No matter what it is, we catch it early. That gives us power. And I promise you, Lily—I'll do everything it takes to make sure you're okay."
Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.
He meant it. Every word.
She could feel it in the way his gaze didn't flicker, in the way his voice held no rehearsed medical detachment, just truth. Steady and warm.
Lily swallowed hard. "Okay. Let's do the biopsy."
She smiled, just a little. "Well, I guess this is one way to add drama to my next chapter."
Her father squeezed her hand again, eyes wet.
Lance stood. "I'll have it scheduled for the earliest slot tomorrow morning. You'll be in and out. We'll take good care of you."
As they left the hospital that day, the sky was bright with a gentle blue, the kind that made you believe in new beginnings. Lily didn't speak much in the car, her fingers resting on her notebook in her lap.
She didn't know what the next chapter would hold. But she knew who would help her write it.
* * *
BrookeHurst Hospital, the next day.
The lights in the biopsy room hummed softly. A slow, constant buzz like the whisper of cicadas in midsummer. Lance sat across from Lily, his notes organized neatly beside her scan results. The monitor glowed behind him, casting faint light across the walls.
Lily sat quietly, wearing an oversized cardigan, her long hair tied into a loose bun. She clutched her notebook like a shield. He noticed her pen tapping, rhythmic but erratic—nervous energy leaking out.
He leaned forward, gentle. Not too close.
"Like I said yesterday, this is just precautionary, It could be benign," he continued. "But it's large enough that we can't make that assumption without pathology. We need to do a biopsy."
Silence. Then, softly, "Will it hurt?"
"No," he said. "We'll sedate you lightly. You won't feel much. Maybe some soreness after. But it's quick."
She nodded again, but her eyes flicked toward the monitor, as if trying to see inside herself. Her voice was quiet: "What happens if it's not benign?"
Lance exhaled carefully. "Then we make a plan. We act fast. And we act together. You won't face it alone."
That seemed to reach her. Her shoulders relaxed by a fraction. She looked up at him for the first time since he entered the room.
"There's something about you," she said. "You're... calm. Like you already know what's going to happen."
He smiled. Not too wide. "Experience."
"Experience?" she repeated, half a laugh. "You don't look old."
"Old soul," he said.
She didn't ask further, but he saw it in her eyes—the flicker of wonder.
Lance watched from behind the glass. The attending physician performing the procedure was one of his own—Dr. Medina, who had once stood beside him in a war tent in a past life, stitching soldiers back together with bare hands and prayer.
Now she worked with robotic precision, guiding the needle via ultrasound, drawing the tissue sample with steady grace. Lily was lightly sedated, breathing even, skin pale under the lights.
He'd performed this procedure himself dozens of times. He knew what to expect. And yet, his heart thudded like a drum.
When the sample was collected and sealed in the sterile container, he felt the weight lift slightly—but not entirely. The real answers would come in days. Days of waiting. Of pacing. Of pretending to focus on other patients.
When Lily woke, he was there. She blinked slowly, groggy, and gave him a sleepy smile.
"Was I brave?" she murmured.
"The bravest," he said, and meant it.
One Week Later —The Lily of Hope Oncology Centre
The pathology report arrived midmorning. Lance held it in his hands for a full minute before opening it. The words swam for a second before sharpening into meaning.
"Mucinous adenocarcinoma. Low-grade. Localized."
Cancer. But early. Contained. Operable.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered a life in Victorian London, where she died of abdominal distension misdiagnosed as hysteria.
He remembered a field hospital in World War II, where she bled internally for hours after a bombing.
He remembered a monastery where they mistook her pain for spiritual punishment and locked her up until her body gave out.
But not this time.
This time, he had a scalpel. And anaesthesia. And a team who had followed him across centuries, though they didn't know it.
This time, she would live.
That Afternoon — Consultation Room
Lily sat across from him again. Not as pale this time, but still quiet. Her eyes were clear, a little wary.
He handed her the report, watching her closely as she read.
Her hands trembled.
"It's cancer," she said aloud, like tasting the word on her tongue. "But... you're smiling."
"Because we found it early," he said. "Because it's contained. Because I can remove it."
She looked up sharply. "You?"
He nodded. "If you'll let me."
A pause. "Have you done this kind of surgery before?"
He didn't laugh. He only said, "More times than I can count."
She exhaled, some mix of fear and relief. "Okay. Then I want you to do it."
And there it was.
Permission.
Trust.
A thread reaching through lifetimes, finally pulled taut in the here and now.
That night in his apartment, Lance stood at the window, overlooking the city. The lights below were a galaxy scattered in grids and pulses. His hands rested on the sill, but his mind was in the past, in the future, in the operating theatre.
He had seen her fade a hundred times. Held her hand in too many deaths.
But this time he had tools. Data. Colleagues who trusted him. A hospital built with memory in every brick and purpose in every floor plan.
And now he had her trust.
She didn't remember. But she chose him.
That was enough.
He turned away from the window and picked up the surgical plan again. Reviewed every detail. Rechecked every line.
Hope wasn't just a word etched into the glass doors of his hospital.
It was his sword.
And he was ready to wield it.