Neil Yuan woke before the sun.
The ceiling above him was still cloaked in shadow, the corners of the room lit only by the faint glow of streetlights seeping through the blinds. Cold air clung to the edges of the sheets, but he didn't mind. His body had gotten used to discomfort.
What he hadn't gotten used to—what he never would—was the idea that time was running out.
Even now, at 27, he still felt the same rush of curiosity every time he opened a physics paper or thought about a new problem. But his body was quieting, slowly and undeniably. Cancer didn't care how many unanswered questions you had left.
He rose with effort, moving slowly as he put on a thick hoodie and house pants. The floor was cold beneath his socks, but the familiar scent of ginger and scallion drifting from the kitchen made him smile.
It was always like this. Quiet mornings, warm food, soft footsteps downstairs.
He hadn't lived alone since the diagnosis. After taking medical leave from the university, Neil had moved back in with his family—a decision that once felt like failure, but now felt like home.
In the kitchen, his mother, Li Hua, stood at the stove, humming softly to herself in Mandarin. The scent of freshly cooked rice, stir-fried eggs with tomato, and pickled mustard greens filled the air.
"You should be sleeping," she said without turning around.
"You should be resting," Neil replied, mimicking her tone.
She glanced at him over her shoulder with that look—equal parts worry, love, and stubborn pride. "Doctors said rest is important."
"I get enough."
"Not enough to look less like a ghost."
Neil smiled faintly. "Then maybe I'll haunt the lab."
Li Hua shook her head but couldn't help smiling as she set a bowl of congee on the table beside him. "Eat first, haunt later."
The Yuan family had lived in Europe for over two decades. His parents had moved from China shortly after getting married—his father to pursue research, his mother to teach. Their small home on the edge of a quiet European suburb was filled with memories of both worlds: red paper cuttings in the corners of windows, European cookbooks on the shelves, old scrolls beside framed science awards.
It was a blend of culture that Neil had grown up in and quietly cherished.
His father, Professor Yuan Mingwei, emerged from the study minutes later, still dressed in a sweater vest and slacks, despite it being a Saturday. His sharp gaze softened slightly upon seeing Neil already at the table.
"You should be lying down," he said plainly, walking over to pour tea.
"I am sitting," Neil said. "It's a compromise."
Mingwei grunted but slid the teacup in front of him with unspoken care.
From upstairs came the thud of feet—Emma, Neil's youngest sister at sixteen, came bounding down the stairs, her long black hair in a messy braid, oversized hoodie drowning her small frame.
"I heard tomatoes and egg," she said sleepily. "Is this a peace offering after stealing my charger, Daniel?"
"Wrong criminal," came the voice of Daniel, the 24-year-old middle sibling, just behind her. Taller, broader, and perpetually in sweats, Daniel looked like someone who lived in front of a screen—which he did. He was a freelance programmer who had taken on more house responsibilities since Neil's condition worsened.
"You unplugged my laptop for your tablet," Emma accused, sitting beside Neil.
"I deny everything," Daniel said, pouring soy sauce onto his rice.
Neil raised a hand. "As your dying brother, I demand peace during meals."
Emma sighed. "Dying is a strong word."
Neil smirked. "So is peace."
Their mother chuckled but didn't scold them. Instead, she handed each of them a small bowl and took her seat at the table. The family fell into a rhythm—chopsticks clinking, quiet conversation, warmth despite the gray skies outside.
Even Neil, who could barely finish a full bowl, felt grounded by the moment.
He looked around the table and knew: he didn't want to leave them. Not yet. Not while his father still corrected equations for fun. Not while Emma asked him questions about black holes like they were gossip. Not while Daniel teased him like nothing was wrong.
But life wasn't fair. And time didn't care.
Later that day, Neil sat out in the back garden with a blanket draped around his shoulders, a mechanical pencil in hand, and a half-filled notebook resting on his lap. His legs were thinner than they used to be, and his hands trembled more often, but his mind was still fast.
He was sketching theoretical resonance diagrams—chaotic fields and loops folding into self-similarity—when the back gate creaked open.
"Dr. Yuan?"
Mira, one of his former mentees from the university, poked her head inside. She wore a thick scarf, foggy glasses, and clutched a thermos like it was treasure.
"You're early," Neil said, pleased.
"I brought tea," she said. "And a hundred questions."
Mira was nineteen, clever, and talked like her thoughts were always running a little ahead of her mouth. She wore boots that scuffed when she walked, and she never visited without three notebooks and a dozen questions.
They sat on the bench together, huddled under a patio heater. She poured tea and launched into her findings.
"I think you were right," she said. "The resonance you described—it's not collapse. It's restructuring in unstable systems. I cross-modeled it with a four-dimensional spiral framework. The feedback wasn't entropy—it was feedback."
Neil blinked. "You modeled that yourself?"
Mira nodded, bashfully. "I think… the system isn't breaking. It's learning."
He leaned back, eyes closing for a second. "You're going to be brilliant."
She bit her lip. "You should be publishing this, not me."
"I won't have time," Neil said softly. "But you will."
That night, Neil lay in bed, awake, the moonlight casting pale light on the ceiling. His notebook rested on his chest. The last page had no equations.
Just a sentence.
"The universe is not quiet. It is speaking—we just don't yet know the language."
His eyes felt heavy.
But he wasn't at peace.
There were still so many things he wanted to finish. To prove. To teach.
He wasn't afraid of death.
But he hated being unfinished.
"If there's another world," he whispered into the dark, "let me keep asking questions."
And with that, his breathing slowed…
And stopped.