The air in the hospital was thick with tension. Every breath felt like a struggle as if the very act of breathing could shatter the fragile calm that hung in the air. "Oh God. Oh God!" Her voice trembled, barely louder than a whisper, but filled with the weight of her fear. Her chest heaved, each breath sharp and shallow, as though she were drowning in a sea of despair. Her wide eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that might anchor her to reality. But all she found was the sterile white of the hospital walls and the faint, sterile smell of antiseptic that filled the air.
"Be patient, honey," the man beside her murmured, his voice gentle, though it held an undercurrent of helplessness. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles over her shoulder, trying to offer comfort where words could not. But even he seemed lost in the vastness of their shared worry.
The woman's face crumpled as fresh tears spilled from her eyes, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "How are we going to pay? We can't afford it," she choked out, the words more of a sob than a sentence. Her voice was laced with the unbearable weight of a mother's love—love that was now entwined with the terror of possibly losing her child.
In the corner, I watched my parents, their distress palpable in the small room. Mom's tears streamed down her face as she clung to Dad, who sat beside her, a pillar of calm in an ocean of turmoil. But I knew the truth. I could see it in the way his hands trembled ever so slightly, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his gaze flickered to the ground. He was a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it was all too clear that he couldn't bear it alone.
Dad worked as a contractor, picking up jobs where he could, but his salary was a pittance. It barely kept us afloat, and now, with the hospital bills looming like a dark cloud over our heads, the reality of our situation was crushing. My brother Arifi, who was only 16, had been admitted to the hospital after a motorcycle accident. The night before, we'd thought the worst was over, but this morning, the doctors had delivered a gut-wrenching blow: Arifi needed emergency surgery to stop the bleeding in his head, a surgery that we simply couldn't afford.
The news hit us like a physical blow. My mother was inconsolable, her sobs echoing in the sterile room, while Dad tried in vain to calm her. But I could see the cracks in his composure. He was scared—more scared than I had ever seen him. And that scared me.
I had rushed to the hospital straight from school, still in my uniform, my mind racing with the horror of what I might find. I was only twelve, just a child myself, and yet the weight of what was happening bore down on me like an anchor. I had always resented Arifi—he was a bully, always picking on me, making my life miserable in the way only an older brother could. But now, seeing him like this, I couldn't help but feel a deep, gnawing fear for him. He was still my brother, and the thought of losing him was unbearable.
"Be patient, honey," Dad murmured again, his voice cracking with the effort to stay strong. "Money can be found, but our child's life is irreplaceable."
I glanced at them, feeling a lump rise in my throat. It was hard, so hard, to see them like this—so vulnerable, so afraid. The idea of something terrible happening to Arifi was too much for them to bear, and it was too much for me as well. But what could I do? I was just a kid.
The hallway outside our small waiting room buzzed with activity. Nurses and patients hurried past, their voices blending into a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the walls. It was hectic, overwhelming, and the sense of urgency in the air only added to the knot of anxiety that twisted in my stomach. I looked up at the ceiling, trying to distract myself, and my gaze caught on a painting that hung there, a simple depiction of a garden with bright flowers and a few bugs scattered among the leaves. My eyes landed on a butterfly, its delicate wings captured in mid-flutter.
And then, something sparked in my mind. I remembered the butterfly I had drawn just yesterday. It was so vivid, so lifelike, and it had almost seemed to move on the page when I used the brush Mr. Razak had given me. A wild idea began to form in my mind, one so crazy that it might just work.
"Mom, how much is the hospital bill?" I asked suddenly, my voice cutting through the thick air. My parents looked up, startled by my question, their tear-streaked faces turning toward me.
"You're still little, Aidan," Dad said, his voice soft but firm. He placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently as he shook his head. "You don't have to worry about this."
But I wasn't going to be brushed off so easily. "Let me know how much it is, Dad," I insisted, pulling my backpack around and reaching inside for the brush that had sparked my wild idea. But before I could even show it to them, Dad's expression hardened, and his voice rose.
"You can't possibly help, Aidan! There is no need for you to interfere with this matter. Just sit there quietly."
His words hit me like a slap, and I recoiled, feeling a sting of tears at the back of my eyes. I hadn't expected him to yell at me. My heart pounded as I stood up abruptly, my chest tight with a mix of hurt and determination. Without a word, I turned and ran toward the restroom, unable to bear the weight of his anger.
In the restroom, I leaned over the sink, tears blurring my vision as I stared at my reflection. "Why are they so rude to me?" I whispered to myself, my voice cracking. I felt so small, so helpless, like a child who had been pushed aside in a world too big and too cruel.
As I cried, my fingers tightened around the magic brush Mr. Razak had given me, the one that had brought my drawings to life. My thoughts raced, replaying everything that had happened in the last few hours. Could I really do this? Could I really help?
Taking a deep breath, I splashed water on my face, trying to calm the storm of emotions that raged inside me. I needed to focus. I needed to try. My family was depending on me, even if they didn't know it yet.
I moved to the farthest stall in the restroom, locking the door behind me. I pulled out my wallet from my pocket, staring at the few RM1.00 notes inside. It wasn't nearly enough. I needed more—much more. But how much? I didn't know the exact amount of the hospital bill, but I knew it had to be high, far more than what we had.
A memory flickered in my mind. I remembered something—an image I had drawn in my sketchbook. I quickly rummaged through my backpack, flipping through the pages until I found it. There it was: a picture of an RM100 note that I had copied weeks ago, just for fun.
My hands shook as I grabbed my sketchbook and the brush, carefully copying the RM100 note onto a blank page. My heart pounded in my chest as I concentrated, trying to replicate every detail perfectly. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I worked, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
When I finished, I held the sketchbook in one hand, the brush in the other. I closed my eyes, whispering a prayer in my heart, hoping against hope that the magic would work again. I tugged gently on the edge of the drawing, and to my amazement, it came away from the page, real and solid in my hand.
My eyes widened in shock, a disbelieving smile spreading across my face. I held the RM100 note up, staring at it as if it might disappear if I looked away. It had worked. It had really worked.
But I knew one note wouldn't be enough. I needed more—much more. I quickly set to work, drawing and pulling, drawing and pulling, until a small pile of RM100 notes had formed at my feet. I lost track of time, the rest of the world fading away as I focused solely on the task at hand. The money felt heavy in my hands, a weight that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Finally, when the money began to spill over, I realized I had enough. I gathered the notes, stuffing them into my backpack until it bulged with the weight of the cash. My hands shook with adrenaline as I zipped it up, my mind reeling from the enormity of what I had just done.
As I left the restroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked different—older, maybe, or just more determined. I patted my cheeks, making sure this wasn't some dream. The sting of the slap told me it was real.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I made my way back to the waiting area where my parents were still sitting. I could see the worry etched deeply into their faces, but there was something different about me now, something they didn't know yet. I was no longer just a helpless kid. I had a plan, and maybe—just maybe—I could save my brother.