Chapter 94 Three Days to the Bell
There were three days left.
The number sat brightly in Clara’s mind as she walked through the hospital corridor that morning. Three days until Peter would stand beside the nurses’ station and ring the brass bell mounted on the wall. Three days until this long season of antiseptic air, careful voices, and measured hope would finally loosen its grip.
The bell meant completion. It meant the end of active treatment. It did not promise a perfect future, but it marked survival, stability, and the courage to move forward. Patients rang it when they had crossed the hardest stretch.
Peter was almost there.
When Clara stepped into his room, she found him sitting up in bed, flipping lazily through a television channel he clearly was not watching.
“You’re early,” he said, a smile forming the moment he saw her.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied, closing the door softly behind her. “I kept thinking about something.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. The bell.”
She laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“A little.”
She walked to his bedside and placed her bag on the chair. The sunlight streamed through the wide window, falling across his face. He looked different these days. Stronger. The sharpness that illness had carved into him months ago had softened. There was color in his cheeks again.
“Three days,” she said quietly.
Peter leaned back against the pillows, folding his arms behind his head. “Three days and I’ll make the loudest ring this hospital has ever heard.”
“You’re not supposed to break it,” she teased.
“I won’t. But I might make it dramatic.”
She sat carefully on the edge of his bed. “How dramatic?”
He pretended to think. “Slow walk. Pause. Look at you like I’ve just won an award. Then ring.”
Clara shook her head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”
“And alive,” he added gently.
The word lingered between them.
Alive.
She reached for his hand without thinking. He squeezed hers.
For a brief moment, the faint worry that had followed her since Daniel’s call faded. The connections to Amsterdam, the questions about funding, the unseen layers behind the treatment. All of it seemed distant compared to the simple warmth of Peter’s fingers wrapped around hers.
“You know what we should do after?” Peter said suddenly.
“After the bell?”
“Yes. We need a proper celebration.”
Clara tilted her head. “At home?”
“Of course. I want everyone there. Your parents. Mine. Even Mark if he promises not to make embarrassing speeches.”
“He will absolutely make embarrassing speeches.”
“Then we’ll limit him to two minutes.”
She smiled at the image. Their families gathered in the living room. Music playing. Laughter filling spaces that had once been tense and quiet.
“What kind of celebration?” she asked.
Peter’s eyes brightened. “Nothing too fancy. Just… real. Food everywhere. You in something beautiful. Me pretending I’m not exhausted.”
“You won’t pretend,” she said softly. “You’ll rest when you need to.”
He studied her face for a second. “You’ve been carrying so much.”
She looked away briefly. “We both have.”
But inside, her thoughts moved differently.
If this had been something dark, something manipulative, would it be ending this smoothly? Would the doctors be preparing discharge plans? Would the nurses be smiling the way they had begun to smile when they entered his room?
Doctor Laurent had reviewed Peter’s latest scans two days ago. Stable. Improving. Responsive to treatment.
The word responsive echoed in her mind.
If someone had chosen Peter for a reason beyond kindness, would they really let him walk away once the treatment was complete?
She did not know.
Yet as she watched him now, joking about cake flavors and guest lists, her suspicion softened slightly. Not gone. Just less sharp.
“Chocolate cake,” Peter declared suddenly.
“That’s not even a debate,” she said.
“It is if your mother insists on fruit cake.”
“She won’t. I’ll talk to her.”
He grinned. “See? You’re already planning.”
She was.
She imagined balloons tied to the staircase. Soft music in the background. Peter standing in the center of the room, healthy enough to complain about too many hugs.
“Do you think we should invite Doctor Laurent?” Peter asked casually.
The question startled her, though she kept her expression calm.
“If you want to,” she said. “He did oversee most of your treatment.”
“He did more than oversee,” Peter said thoughtfully. “He pushed for adjustments when things weren’t working. He stayed late more times than he needed to.”
Clara nodded slowly.
Doctor Laurent had been attentive. Focused. Professional.
Connected to Amsterdam.
She pushed the thought aside gently.
“Maybe we can send him a thank you,” she said instead. “A proper one. Not just a card.”
Peter squeezed her hand again. “You always think of things like that.”
“Someone has to.”
He shifted slightly, making space. “Come here.”
She hesitated only for a second before leaning carefully against him, mindful of the hospital wires and monitors that were now fewer than before. His arm wrapped around her shoulders.
They stayed like that for a while, listening to the quiet hum of medical equipment.
“Do you remember,” Peter said softly, “when we first came here? I thought I would never leave.”
Clara closed her eyes briefly. She remembered the fear. The late-night tears she had hidden. The helplessness.
“You’re leaving,” she said now. “In three days.”
“And you’ll be right beside me when I ring it.”
“Always.”
Her phone vibrated faintly inside her bag.
She ignored it.
Whatever it was could wait.
Right now, this mattered more.
Peter shifted, looking down at her stomach. “We’ll tell them at the party,” he said quietly.
Her heart skipped. “Tell them what?”
He raised an eyebrow gently. “That we’re going to need a bigger cake next year.”
Her eyes softened. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure of us.”
Emotion rose in her throat unexpectedly. She had carried so much uncertainty alone these past weeks. The investigator. The funding. The unanswered questions.
Yet here, in this small hospital room, hope felt stronger than suspicion.
Maybe kindness did not always need a hidden motive.
Maybe some things were simply grace.
And even if there were reasons behind the sponsorship, even if Amsterdam still held secrets, Peter’s improvement was real. His laughter was real. The steady rhythm of his heart on the monitor was real.
She leaned into him a little more.
“Three days,” she whispered again.
“Three days,” he echoed.
Outside, nurses passed by, their footsteps light. Somewhere down the hall, another patient laughed. The hospital no longer felt like a place of endings.
It felt like a place of thresholds.
Clara allowed herself, just for that moment, to imagine the bell ringing. The clear, bright sound filling the corridor. Peter smiling wide. Applause from staff and family. Tears she would not bother hiding.
And though questions still lingered quietly in the background of her mind, they no longer overshadowed the present.
For now, there were only three days left.
Three days to hope.
Three days to the bell.