Chapter 13 - Harold's Birthday Gift
Room 307 had become strangely quiet.
Outside the room, two additional security officers now stood guard.
Neither of them wore hospital identification.
Neither spoke to the nurses.
Daniel Voss had personally ordered that Harold Bennett remain "undisturbed."
Inside, Harold lay awake.
His monitor continued its steady rhythm.
The birthday balloon one of the pediatric patients had secretly brought him that afternoon floated gently beside the window.
A young volunteer named Lily entered carrying fresh water.
She couldn't have been older than sixteen.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Bennett."
Harold smiled warmly.
"You're the first person to sing to me today."
Lily laughed.
"I wasn't singing."
"You were smiling."
She blushed.
As she adjusted the flowers, Harold noticed something unusual.
The two guards outside never looked away from the door.
"Young lady."
"Yes?"
"If something happens..."
She stopped arranging the vase.
"...would you do an old man one favor?"
"Anything."
Harold pointed toward his bedside drawer.
"There's another photograph inside."
Lily opened it.
It showed Harold standing beside four children.
Behind them sat the very first Richard.
Everyone looked happy.
On the back someone had written:
Never let them separate the family again.
Lily frowned.
"What does it mean?"
Harold didn't answer.
Instead he removed a simple silver ring from his finger.
"I want you to keep this."
"I can't."
"You must."
He closed her fingers around it.
"If Richard comes back without me..."
Lily looked confused.
"...give him this."
Before she could ask another question, the lights flickered.
The heart monitor emitted a strange tone.
One of the guards immediately entered.
"Visiting time is over."
"There is no visiting time," Lily replied.
"There is now."
His voice was cold.
Harold recognized him instantly.
He had seen the man years earlier.
Only then, he wore a military uniform.
"You..."
The guard smiled.
"I wondered whether you'd remember."
Harold's breathing became uneven.
"You never died."
"No."
The guard stepped closer.
"I was promoted."
He glanced toward the IV pump.
"It has taken us seventy-five years to clean up your mistake."
The monitor skipped one beat.
Then another.
Outside the room, nobody noticed that Richard's empty blanket had suddenly begun sliding toward the floor by itself.
Beneath it lay a folded piece of paper that nobody had seen before.
Across the top, in childish handwriting, were the words:
**For Grandpa Harold.
May you like
Don't trust anyone wearing gray gloves.**
---
