I was left alone in my spacious office, surrounded by glass, marble, and expensive paintings. Everything that the little boy from the orphanage — the one they once called “deaf and useless” — had never dared to dream of.
I sat down in my chair and closed my eyes.
The memories came back.
The cold walls of the orphanage.
The smell of cheap porridge.
The cruel laughter of other children.
The indifferent voices of caregivers: “He doesn’t understand anyway.”
No one believed in me.
Except myself.
At eleven, I learned to read lips.
At twelve, I secretly read medical books.
At fifteen, I worked nights to buy a hearing aid.
At eighteen, I entered university against all odds.
I survived.
I grew stronger.
I became a doctor.
The best.
And now, the people who had abandoned me were standing before me on their knees, begging.
My phone vibrated.
A message from my assistant:
“Dr. Sloane, patient Lily. Terminal condition. Without your method — 0% chance.”
Zero percent.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Without me, she would die.
I stood up and walked to the window.
The city was still alive. People were laughing, rushing, falling in love.
And inside me, a war was raging.
One voice whispered:
— Let them suffer.
— Let them feel your pain.
— Let them pay.
Another voice was quieter:
— She is not guilty.
— She is just like you once were.
— She didn’t choose her parents.
I remembered my mother’s words:
“She thinks you ran away…”
To her, I wasn’t a traitor.
I was a lost brother.
A tear rolled down my cheek.
I hated them.
But not her.
An hour later, I was at the hospital.
The intensive care unit. The beeping machines. The smell of disinfectant.
On the bed lay a fragile girl.
Pale. Weak.
My sister.
A doctor whispered beside me:
“If you refuse, we will understand.”
I stepped closer.
She opened her eyes.
Her lips moved slightly:
“Sloane…?”
My heart tightened.
“Yes. I’m here.”
She smiled.
Weakly, but sincerely.
And in that moment, I knew:
I would not leave.
I would not betray.
I would save her.
Not for them.
For myself.
For the lonely child I once was.
The surgery lasted twelve hours.
Every minute was a battle.
Every move mattered.
When it was over, I was completely exhausted.
My assistant looked at the monitor:
“She’s stable.”
She’s alive.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in years, I felt peace.
Three days later, she woke up.
Her first question:
“Are you going to leave?”
I took her hand.
“Never.”
Our parents tried to come.
I didn’t let them in.
They received only one letter:
“I saved your daughter.
But you lost me forever.
Don’t look for me.”
Today, Lily is studying.
We laugh together.
We talk about the future.
She has a brother.
I have a family.
And they?
Only regret.
Sometimes, fate gives a second chance.
But not to everyone.
And not always.