Winter Graveyard

After finishing my class, I gathered my books to leave.

It was a short walk back to the dorm. Suddenly, my head spun violently. Before I could react, I stumbled and tumbled down the stairs.

I lay on the ground for a long time before I could limp to the infirmary.

The school doctor examined me, his brow deeply furrowed. I didn't take it seriously. "Probably just low blood sugar from the heavy workload. I'll pay attention to my diet and rest."

The school doctor ordered a whole battery of tests and insisted I go to a major hospital for a full examination.

Seeing his serious expression, I skipped my afternoon classes, hailed a cab, and headed to the city hospital.

Getting the tests done took the whole afternoon, including a brain CT and other checks.

Waiting for the results took a week.

A week later, standing outside a hospital clinic door, clutching a thick stack of reports, my hands were shaking. Behind the dense, incomprehensible medical terms was a small note: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.

The doctor said many things; I didn't register a single word.

Finally, I searched online. When the words "Lou Gehrig's disease" appeared, I was shocked.

How could such a rare disease have anything to do with me?

I had one year left until graduation, the top student in the Fine Arts department.

Soon, I was supposed to hold my own solo exhibition.

Holding the reports, I walked slowly home, gradually digesting this fact.

I was destined to die.

Before dying, I could at least donate my body to science.

After all, I had once dreamed of becoming a doctor, but due to certain events, I ended up in art school instead.

After signing the body donation consent form, only the family consent section remained blank.

My hand holding the pen tightened, then slowly relaxed after a long while.

As dusk fell, I finally took out my phone and dialed the number I hadn't called in five years.

The phone rang many times without an answer. On my third call, just as I was about to hang up for the last time—he answered.

"Alan, could you sign my body donation consent form?"

I stated my purpose, but there was no sound from the other end.

I even wondered if the call hadn't connected properly, or if he hadn't heard.

Just as I was about to repeat myself, an impatient voice came through: "Stop bothering me."

My eyes stung.

Before I could say anything else, the line went dead.

So, even after five years of silence, his resentment towards me hadn't lessened at all.

The doctor told me ALS was difficult to cure; at best, medicine could control the symptoms, but ultimately, all organ functions would fail.

I didn't know which day I would collapse on the street.

Or which morning I’d wake up unable to walk, or even grasp things.

Breathing, even speaking, would become difficult.

I decided to use whatever time I had left to