1st Place Fiction

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Location: Train Station  

Object: A Child's Drawing  

Line: "The instructions were clear." 

 

The Way Home, by Deborah Hegewald  

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Morning light crept across the rooftops of the City as Allison stepped into the train station. She zipped her light blue parka up to her chin and raised the collar. 

But the cold came from inside — ever since the doctor’s calm announcement a few hours  earlier: “Time of death: 3:47.” 

Why Emily? In sixteen years on the children’s ward, Allison had seen many children come and go. But this girl... Emily was one of the few she had truly let into her heart. Deeper than was good for a nurse. 

A loudspeaker announcement croaked overhead — something about a delay. Allison didn’t listen. Her sneakers squeaked on the cold tiles as she trudged to the waiting hall. Relieved to have the room to herself, she collapsed onto a bench. A wave of commuters spilled out of the trains — half-asleep, already rushed, flowing into the  city. That’s where Allison had come from. 

She had walked from the hospital to the station as if in a trance. Past the bakery without even glancing up. The thought of buying her usual cream cheese bagel felt strange — like something from  another life. 

The waiting room was quiet. Only the distant rolling of a suitcase, now and then the metallic screech of a trainbrake. She sat on the hard bench, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the beige-tiled wall. Her vision blurred. 

And suddenly she was back there — in the children’s ward. As soon as Allison entered the station she’d had a bad feeling. As she passed, she noticed the blinds drawn in Emily’s room. 

The isolation room had a window facing the hallway — so Emily and her mother could at least glimpse the outside world. 

 

Emily was suffering from an aggressive form of leukemia. For over four weeks, the isolation room had been her entire world. The high-dose chemotherapy had nearly destroyed her complete immune system. Only strict isolation could ensure her survival until the planned stem cell transplant. These weeks had been hard. Emily was incredibly brave. Whenever she had the strength, she’d sit at the little table by the window, drawing or  crafting. Her artwork soon covered the walls — small explosions of color and optimism. 

Allison was often assigned to her. Emily’s laughter — bright and contagious — dispelled the heaviness from the room every  time. The blonde girl laughed at Allison’s hair clip, the one with the barking rubber dog. At clouds in which she discovered galloping horses. At the sterile, shrink-wrapped hospital meals. 

During the report, Allison learned the awful truth. Three days earlier, Emily had developed a fever — chills, severe headaches. Multiresistant bacteria had spread. Her weakened immune system was powerless to fight them off. Since then, she’d mostly slept—barely responsive. The monitor showed her blood pressure dropping. Oxygen flowed through a nasal tube. 

The medical team and the parents made a joint decision—not to move Emily to the ICU. Emily would not make it. Morphine and sedatives had been dripping into her small body for hours, keeping her calm. 

When Allison entered the room that evening, it was the absence of Emily’s cheerful spirit she noticed first. She lay still in bed. Pale. Fragile. “Hi Emily, it’s me, Allison.” 

She placed her hand on the child’s – it was cold. 

 

“H e l l o A l l i…,” Emily whispered. 

 

Her mother gave Allison a sad nod. Her father was there too. The isolation rules had been lifted. Both were allowed to be with their daughter. Allison answered questions, held hands, soothed. “She’s not in pain,” she said softly. Then she stepped out briefly. 

Finding a quiet moment, she sat in the staff bathroom on the closed toilet lid, her arms  wrapped around her knees. Gently rocking back and forth. Emily would die soon. This wonderful girl would leave behind shattered parents — and Allison. 

Then it happened quickly. The parents rang the bell. Emily had stopped breathing at intervals. “That’s normal,” Allison said gently. “She’s leaving soon. Should I stay here with you?” The parents exchanged glances, whispered to each other… then asked for some time alone. 

A short time later, the red light above the door lit up. Allison was startled. The father stepped outside. “She’s gone,” he said tonelessly. On the monitor: a flat line. Allison stepped in the room and hugged the mother. They had been allies for four weeks. Then she embraced the father too. No one sobbed out loud. The doctor arrived and confirmed the death. 

The mother sat for a long time, holding the small hands. 

Then, wordlessly, she stood. 

Took the drawings off the wall, one by one. 

Towards morning, Emily’s mother came into the ward office. Shaky hands. Red eyes. 

She was holding a folded piece of paper. She said Emily had started a serious conversation two weeks ago. Asked whether the treatments were really helping. Whether she would fully recover. They had told her the truth—that sometimes, children don’t make it. After that, Emily had grown quiet. Then she sat down and drew two pictures. She folded them and handed the drawings to her Mother. 

 

The instructions were clear: Both pictures were only to be looked at, should she die. One was for her family. The other — for Allison. 

Allison was still sitting on the bench at the station. Slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out the folded sheet. With numb fingers, she opened it. 

So very Emily—every detail, every color, vivid. At the bottom, a house. Next to it, six stick figures in bright clothes. Above them, in crooked handwriting: Daddy, Mommy, Kevin, Robert, Sara. A garden with sunflowers, an apple tree, a swing. 

Above several buildings: a school, a McDonald’s, a church, a shopping mall. An entire little life on a single page.In the middle: a wide river. A large bridge spanned it. At the end, a big sign: Heaven. Allison held her breath. 

The top half of the picture was a radiant garden. Meadows. Mountains. Lakes. Colorful houses. Next to the first house Allison discovered a sign: “Grandma’s and Grandpa’s Heaven House,” near to it two stick figures. An elderly lady with an apron. A laughing old man in overalls. On the meadow: a doghouse. “Cody’s Heaven Dog House”. In front of it, a big brown dog. 

Allison recognized him—and also Emily’s grandparents. Their photos had hung next to the  girls bed. All three had died recently. 

Tears run over Allison’s cheeks.  She wiped them away to look at the small figure in the middle of the bridge. It was a small girl. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She was beaming. Waving. 

Allison sobbed. 

“Thank you, Emily.” 

She ran her fingers over the paper, then slowly folded it. Slipped it back into her bag and stepped through the glass door onto the platform. 

The morning had moved on outside. The air smelled of fresh bread rolls and cleaning supplies. A light breeze swept her hair across the face. There was a little girl. She hopped towards her. On the leash: a big, fluffy dog. For a moment, their eyes met. 

 

Allison smiled. 

 

Finally she pulled her hands from her pockets and walked away.