The children’s oncology ward in Yaroslavl glowed with painted skies, dancing animals, and paper flowers meant to soften the sorrow. Yet beneath the color, silence lingered—a silence of parents holding their breath, of children too tired to cry, of doctors fighting what science couldn’t mend.
In Ward 308, eight-year-old Yegor lay beneath a pale blanket, his frail chest rising with mechanical rhythm. Dr. Andrei Kartashov—renowned oncologist, tireless researcher—stood beside him, not as a doctor but as a father breaking quietly. Every treatment had failed; the word terminal haunted every corridor.
Then came a knock. A boy, ten at most, stood in the doorway—calm, knowing. “I can help him,” he said. Andrei scoffed, exhausted. “You can cure cancer?”
“No,” the boy replied softly. “But I know what he needs.”
He touched Yegor’s hand, whispered something, and the air seemed to still. A flicker of movement followed—Yegor’s fingers twitched. His eyes opened.
“Dad…” he breathed.
Tears filled Andrei’s eyes. When he turned back, the strange boy was already gone—leaving only the echo of a miracle behind.
