On chart review, his prognosis is grim: metastatic cancer complicated by colonic perforation and infection. When I enter his room, I see the grey-haired, frail man I had expected from the notes. What I’m not prepared for is the way his eyes fill with warmth as they look up at me. He closes the small notebook on his lap and puts down his pen, directing his attention to me. Instantly, I feel that his welcome is real.

In a yellow gown and face shield, with a voice muffled under the layers of masks, I give him my usual introduction for pre-rounding and apologize for the early morning interruption. “A student!”, he smiles, and holds out his hand for a handshake. I hesitate, because we have been told to avoid unnecessary contact with patients to prevent the spread of infection—but this feels necessary, and I reach out to him with my blue, gloved hand.

He seems curious about who I am, which is unprecedented in this clunky morning encounter usually filled with whispers, apologies, and awkward maneuvering to hear the heart and lungs. He patiently waits for me to finish the exam and asks what year I am, what hopes I have for my career. His kindness startles me, though this is not the first time I witness the extraordinary ability of the sickest patients on the ward to offer their genuine attention and care, to see others better than any healthy person on the floor.

When I tell him that I found my way to medicine through my love of stories, he tells me he is a poet. He opens up his notebook and recites one of his poems for me: it’s about a revelation he had while watching autumn leaves in the wind. The leaves don’t fall from the trees, he says. They dance down, with intention and joy. For a moment, we are still, immersed in that shared image of dancing leaves.

On the wall behind his bed are cards from his grandchildren: careful letters written in a slight downward slant, with drawings and photos of each of them. On his side table is a framed photo of a young woman, and as he notices my eyes linger there, he says, “That’s my daughter, from her high school graduation.” Visitor access has been restricted at the hospital, so he has only been able to see his daughter for a few hours, and his grandchildren, not at all. He looks out the window and wonders, quietly, whether he will get the chance to see them again.

Later that morning, his pain escalates, and his vitals become unstable. The alarms sound, and the team rushes in to stabilize him; a few hours later, after a consult with the palliative care team and a phone conversation with his family, he is transitioned to comfort measures only.

That evening, I return to check in, unsure if this will be the last time we see each other. I expect him to politely ask for time alone, partly because I cannot imagine what it feels like to accept and await your own death. To my surprise, he is humming, listening to music. In the lightness of his movements and his ruffled hair, I see a reflection of the dancing leaves, and how he is living true to the spirit of his words. When he notices me at the door, he calls my name, and says, “I’m so glad you’ve come by!”.

He invites me to sit down, and we talk a little more about his winding life: he tells me how bold he was in his youth, but also how much he got in trouble. He tells me how grateful he is to have created his family and to have led the life he did. Before I leave, he says, “I really miss my grandkids today. Talking with you reminds me of them. Give your grandfather a call tonight, for me. He probably misses you, too.”

I don’t tell him that I wish I could—that I lost him six months ago, that I’m a fourteen-hour flight away from home. It had been two years since I last saw my grandfather, let alone anyone else in my family. Travel and quarantine restrictions had kept me from being able to go home and bid him a proper goodbye.

I don’t tell him because this moment is not about me, because he has enough grief to hold, but also because I am making up for my missed time with grandpa by being here with him. I know someone was there in the hospital in Seoul, some weary soul armed in PPE, to see my grandpa through his last moments; to extend him some semblance of love and compassion; to preserve his integrity, by cleaning and nourishing him, at the expense of their own discomfort. Some of them, too, must have met my grandpa for the first time on the last day of his life.

So here I am, with a stranger whose life I entered at dusk. In that moment, instead of sadness, I feel connection. We are here, two lives each with missing parts—and though we cannot stand in for each other’s losses, we give each other a chance to show care, hold space, and offer comfort.