Joyce, an eight-year-old girl from Yonghe, lay quietly on the bed in the children's ward. The nurse gently rubbed the spot on her hand where the needle had been inserted, asking if it hurt. A few strands of long hair brushed across her bright eyes, and her round face broke into a smile, accompanied by a hoarse "Thank you."
But before the words could fully leave her mouth, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down. She lightly wiped away the trail of tears with her arm, her small hand still clutching that familiar paintbrush tightly. She was drawing the little boy across from her—his face. The boy looked wooden and expressionless, but the little girl burst into laughter.
***
Two years ago, the president of the Scout club came to my class. Knowing how much I loved children, he invited me to join them in leading activities at the children's ward of a nearby hospital. Children are so adorable in their innocence, but when they're sick, they look like tender sprouts wilting under the scorching sun—no farmer could bear to watch without heartache.
I was about to decline, but seeing the president's enthusiastic face, I couldn't bring myself to pour cold water on his idea. At least I should go once, I thought. After going, I discovered there was an auntie at the hospital—a primary school teacher who would bring Scout groups from various schools to visit. In age, she was like a grandma to the kids, but when she played with them, she was just like one of their peers.
One of the activities involved drawing with the children. Most kids just loved to scribble because, when they could pour their inner imaginings onto paper with a brush, they stepped into the world they'd created themselves. When we truly engaged with their drawings, speaking to them in the language of their art, that world became richer because someone had joined in.
I wandered among many children, and through these worlds they built.
At that time, Joyce was sitting in the corner by the door with her mother, drawing a zoo filled with six giraffes. Some had their mouths wide open as if angry, others squinted in thought, but not one had the same expression. One was peeking out over the fence—perhaps because she hadn't calculated the position right at first but still wanted it to stretch outside, so its neck was drawn extraordinarily long.
"What is it looking for?" I asked, pointing at that giraffe.
"It wants to get out!" Joyce laughed. I turned and saw her other arm hooked up to an IV drip.
"Have any of your classmates come to visit you?" I guessed she missed school life.
"We're about to be discharged," her mother chimed in.
I called a friend who taught drawing, and he said this little girl definitely had talent. He advised that in such a situation, it was best not to teach her—let her draw freely. A few days later, I visited her privately, bringing some art supplies as a gift. They were on the verge of discharge, and if I could praise Joyce in the moment, perhaps her parents would nurture her gift more intentionally.
Joyce happily accepted the supplies, but at the same time, I noticed even more art tools nearby. It turned out her parents had been supporting her drawing all along. Joyce showed me sketchbook after sketchbook—five in total. She'd been drawing since she was very young and hadn't stopped even during her hospital stays. Seeing a child so passionate about something, I resolved to support her.
I shared stories of famous painters with her parents and gave them my business card, hoping to help such a talented child. But the more I spoke, the stranger their expressions grew. I turned and saw the sign at her bedside: brain tumor.
****
After that, I made it a point to visit Joyce once a week. One time, I learned a magic trick to teach her—I knew kids were endlessly curious and eager to uncover secrets. When I performed it, her face lit up with genuine wonder. But when I tried to show her how it worked, she pressed her hand over mine, refusing to let me reveal the mystery.
In that moment, I realized she understood: she knew I wanted to bring her joy, and that intention alone was enough. A warm feeling washed over my heart.
Another time, I told her a story about a little child who loved to draw, and how the dreams in those drawings came true one by one. After the nurse gave her an injection, she eagerly picked up her brush and drew the little boy in the bed across from her—the one who'd just been admitted.
That boy was also there because of a brain tumor. Children with brain tumors undergo radiation therapy alone in an isolated room, enduring pain that even adults can scarcely bear. Joyce drew him lying in the radiation chamber, tears on his cheeks, but with an angel by his side.
Joyce told me that at first, she was terrified of radiation—so very afraid. But now, she wasn't scared anymore because the angel would protect her. She wanted to tell the other children not to be afraid.
A towel wiped the remaining water from her forehead, and now it trickled down her brow, making it hard to tell if it was sweat or tears.
As the cancer cells spread, the needle marks on her hands multiplied, and the hair on her forehead fell out strand by strand. Eventually, she could no longer speak normally. But every time I visited, aside from watching cartoons, she would draw.
With her hand tangled in IV lines, Joyce etched the touching moments of the world, stroke by stroke. In one drawing, she depicted a big kangaroo with a baby in its pouch; the mother kangaroo hopped along, holding an IV bag, while the little one blissfully suckled from the drip.
Later, I came to understand that Joyce knew her life was drawing to a close, though her grasp of what leaving this world meant was hazy. What she cared about was leaving her mother's embrace.
There was one drawing she gave to me. I'd told her I was a teacher, so she drew a group of children surrounding me—some grabbing my legs, others touching my head. She had always assumed I taught at a primary school, in a place she missed dearly.
The last time I saw her, she showed me a collection of cards she'd gathered, missing just one. It took me a long time to find it, but when I returned to see her, she had already passed. In the hospital, my heart felt strangely calm—I thought she had simply gone to a peaceful other world. But as I walked through the garden on my way out, the sadness began to overwhelm me.
On the bus, I finally couldn't hold back the tears, because when I opened my briefcase, I saw the drawing she'd given me. On the back of it was an expression of endless love for life.
