**Darkness and Hope**
Oliver lay with his eyes closed. I knew he wasn’t asleep. Two weeks had passed since they brought him home from the county hospital, yet he hadn’t once switched on the lamp by his bedside. It sat there like a forgotten museum piece next to his untouched tablet. On the floor, a notebook and pen lay discarded. Whose number had he crossed out this time? How many were left of the two hundred and thirty? Those numbers—birthdays, contacts—I’d dictated them to him myself a year ago, before his last spinal surgery. Complicated, final, like a death sentence.
The memories still gripped me, turning my blood cold. As a boy, Oliver had been full of life—running, laughing, playing football with his friend James. Then, during a training session, he collapsed and couldn’t get up. The ambulance, the hospital, three weeks of immobility. He improved, but six months later, the pain returned—bone-deep, relentless. The first operation came, then the second. The agony would fade, only to return like an executioner.
After the second surgery, I stayed by his side. I begged the doctors to let me care for him. Exhaustion weighed on me, but relief came when a group of medical students arrived. One of them, Emily, took a liking to Oliver. Tall, with sharp features, he was still handsome despite the pain. She’d have stayed by his bed night and day if she could, ready to do anything for him. But Oliver only scowled when I mentioned her.
“Mum, why would she care?” he said. “It’s just a phase. I like her, but I can’t let myself love her. We’ll go back home, and she’ll forget me. I don’t need more pain.”
He refused to give her his number. Emily begged me for it, then took it anyway. They texted, called, video-chatted. She promised to visit. Then the third surgery happened. It didn’t fix him—it broke him. Oliver could no longer walk, could barely stand for half an hour. His eyes filled with a despair so deep it shattered me. I listened to his breathing at night, counted his pills, terrified he’d do something desperate. My cheerful boy had turned into a stranger—irritable, distant, but thank God, not bitter. I feared he’d grow to hate life, hate people for their joy.
One day, I peeked at his notebook. Emily’s number was crossed out. She hadn’t replied to his message, then. Oliver still sent birthday texts to old classmates and friends, but most ignored him. He’d cross out their numbers, jaw clenched, as if holding back a scream. Only six names remained: James, Daniel, Liam, Sophie, Charlotte, Gemma. Daniel and Liam were old schoolmates. The girls, I didn’t know.
And James—his friend since nursery. From the day they’d sat together at the same little table, they’d been inseparable. School, football, adventures—always side by side. After graduation, James went off to university while Oliver, trained as a programmer, worked remotely when he wasn’t bedridden. His boss, bless him, allowed it.
James called almost daily. On breaks, he’d rush over, talk about life, force Oliver to exercise, massage his legs, carry him outside. He’d drive him everywhere—fishing trips, into town, even holidays by the coast. He’d ring me, asking about Oliver’s mood, if we needed anything. Oliver always refused help, but James never listened.
James became a successful businessman, married his uni sweetheart, Rachel. But their friendship never faded. Now they travelled as a trio—James bought three tickets, ignoring Oliver’s protests. They went to France, Thailand, Spain. James, towering at six-foot-four, carried Oliver from car to plane while Rachel chattered beside them, distracting him from stares. Women sighed at the handsome man who looked away.
James and Rachel thawed Oliver’s heart. He started to believe he might walk again. Then fate struck. One night, the agony returned. Ambulance, airlift, the hospital. As they wheeled him away, Oliver smiled weakly.
“Mum, don’t worry. I’m tough, you know that. Just don’t tell James, yeah?”
“Of course,” I lied.
Tears choked me. I prayed for his life. The next morning, James burst in, frantic.
“Where’s Oliver? I know something’s wrong!”
I told him. By evening, he was at the hospital, calling me:
“Auntie Grace, spoke with the surgeons. Operation in three hours. His heart’s strong—he’ll pull through. I’ve covered everything, don’t worry about the cost. I’ll call after.”
I begged every saint to spare him. James messaged later—the surgery went well, but Oliver faced months of recovery. A fourth operation, another brutal blow.
James and Rachel visited constantly, bringing books, medicine, a new tablet. They took me with them, refusing to let me fret over expenses. Twice I took the coach alone while they were away in Germany, but even there, James called daily.
Two weeks ago, Oliver came home. He lay in darkness, eyes shut, as if afraid to face his future. I closed his door quietly, retreating to my own sleepless grief. The tears had dried up long ago—spent the night I’d begged God to save him.
That morning, James rang.
“Auntie Grace, we’re back. How’s Oliver? Gloomy? We’ll fix that. Listen—I found a clinic in Germany that treats his condition. There’s hope. Don’t tell him yet—he’ll argue. Call when he’s awake. We’ll come over, bring his gift, then explain.”
Three months later, James carried Oliver to the car, then onto a plane. Rachel, as always, fluttered beside them, her voice bright as a bell. Their friendship was a gift, woven from loyalty and warmth.
Two years on, Oliver walks unaided. He works, dates. James and Rachel cheer as if their own son had been born—a boy they named Oliver. They visited with the baby, asking if he’d be godfather.
For the first time in years, Oliver wept openly. Tears poured, washing away pain, fear, leaving room for joy. We all cried—except little Oliver, who smiled at the world he’d just entered.
Wiping his face, Oliver said, “James, you even need to ask? It’s the greatest honour. You know my heart—if you ever need it, it’s yours.”
And I realised—some bonds are unbreakable, even by the cruelest twists of fate.
