Halloween used to mean magic.
It used to mean pumpkin-shaped candy buckets, giggles echoing through the crisp autumn air, and the kind of sugar-fueled joy only childhood can hold. But this year, in a quiet house lit softly by orange string lights, Halloween feels different — heavier, quieter, and achingly tender.
Because this Halloween, little Cylus isn’t out trick-or-treating with his friends.
He’s curled up on the couch, exhausted from more than just an ear infection.
He’s fighting cancer.
A Different Kind of Hero
When Cylus first lost his hair to chemotherapy, his parents tried to find a way to laugh through the heartbreak.
They joked he’d make the perfect “Mr. Clean” for Halloween — bald head, big grin, and all.
But that was months ago, before the infection, before the fatigue set in, before Halloween became just another reminder of how different life is now.
“He doesn’t need a superhero costume,” his mom said softly. “He’s a real one every day.”
And she’s right.
Every day, Cylus wakes up to face battles most adults couldn’t bear — needles, scans, the dizzying waves of nausea, the fear that creeps in between moments of hope.
Yet even on the days when his little body trembles with pain, his spirit glows.
He smiles for his parents.
He tells his baby brother stories.
He still dreams about candy and pumpkins and silly ghosts.
That’s what makes him a hero — not the cape, but the courage.
The Year Everything Changed
Just one year ago, life was different.
His mom remembers it vividly — the crunch of leaves underfoot, the sight of her boys running down the familiar streets of her childhood neighborhood, the sound of laughter mingling with the autumn wind.
That Halloween, they were celebrating her mother’s own battle with cancer. It had been an emotional season, but there was still joy, still light, still a sense of normalcy.
She didn’t know then that it would be their last “normal” Halloween.
Within months, Cylus would be diagnosed with a tumor on the left side of his head — the same side where he now battles a stubborn ear infection. The same side that reminds his mother of everything they’ve lost, and everything they still refuse to give up
When the doctors said the word “tumor,” the air left the room.
But Cylus — sweet, brave, endlessly resilient Cylus — faced it the way he faces everything: with quiet strength and a mischievous grin that seems to whisper,
You’re going to have to do better than that to take me down.
The Reality of What Childhood Cancer Steals'
People talk about what cancer takes — health, energy, hair.
But those who’ve lived it know it’s so much more than that.
It steals the ordinary days.
The little rituals that make up a childhood: running in the yard, playing tag, trick-or-treating until bedtime, waking up to a pillowcase full of candy.
It steals the chance to be carefree.
This year, while other kids pull on their capes and masks, while parents laugh at the doorsteps of neighbors handing out sweets, Cylus’s family will sit together at home.
There will still be candy, but it’ll come with caution — just a few pieces, depending on how he feels.
There will still be laughter, but quieter.
And there will still be love — deep, unshakeable love — that fills the space where normal life used to be.
His mom wrote, “Such a painful reality of what childhood cancer robs of those affected by it.”
Because it doesn’t just take from the child — it takes from everyone who loves them.
It takes from mothers who ache for normal nights, fathers who would give anything to trade places, siblings who don’t understand why the laughter sounds different now.
But it also gives something back — perspective, purpose, and a fierce appreciation for every small victory.
Trick or Treat for Cy
Cylus’s mom doesn’t want pity.
She doesn’t want empty sympathy or hollow words.
She wants people to celebrate life — to grab their kids’ hands, to go out into the night, to shout “Trick or treat!” until their voices are hoarse.
She wants people to do it for Cylus.
“Trick or treat your butts off with your babies tonight — for Cy,” she wrote.
Because somewhere, under a soft blanket and the hum of a nearby lamp, there’s a little boy who would give anything to be out there — running through the night, his bucket heavy with candy, his cheeks pink from the cold.
Instead, he’s fighting an invisible battle, his tiny body working overtime to heal, his spirit holding on to the sweetness life still offers.
And if he can’t run door to door tonight, then the world can do it for him.
The Light Still Glows
The house is quiet, but not sad.
There’s love in every corner — the faint smell of caramel candles, the glow of a smiling pumpkin, the sound of soft laughter as his parents unwrap a piece of chocolate for him.
He smiles weakly, then stronger.
“Maybe tomorrow,” his mom says. “We’ll do our own trick-or-treat.”
Tomorrow, maybe he’ll have more energy.
Tomorrow, maybe the infection will ease.
Tomorrow, maybe there will be candy and laughter and tiny victories.
But for now, rest is the only costume he needs.
Because even without a cape, Cylus is the bravest superhero in the room.
What We Can All Learn from Him
Cylus’s story isn’t about loss — it’s about perspective.
It’s a reminder that childhood isn’t measured in the number of Halloweens you get to celebrate, but in the love that surrounds you while you do.
That heroism isn’t found in masks or costumes — it’s found in hospital beds, in small smiles, in the way a mother keeps believing when the world tells her not to.
It’s about learning to find beauty in the broken pieces — to hold on to hope even when the future feels uncertain.
So tonight, when you watch your kids race across the street in their little ghost and princess costumes, when you hear them laugh and squeal and trade candy under the porch light — take a moment.
Look up.
Say a silent thank you.
And maybe, just maybe, whisper a little wish into the October sky — for Cylus, and for every child who won’t get to go door to door this year.
Because though he’s missing out on Halloween, he’s reminding the rest of us what the holiday — and life itself — is really about: joy in the moment, gratitude in the chaos, and courage in the face of fear.
The Boy Who Taught Us to Be Brave
This Halloween will pass. The pumpkins will collapse, the candy will disappear, and the costumes will be tucked away for next year.
But Cylus’s story will linger.
It will remind every parent to hold their child a little tighter, every kid to share their candy with someone who needs a smile, and every person to remember that even in the darkest nights, courage glows brightest.
Because the truth is simple, and powerful:
Cylus doesn’t need a costume to be a hero.
He already is one.
Happy Halloween,” his mom wrote. “Save some candy for Cy, and soak up these moments.”
And maybe that’s the message we all need this year —
that love, even when dressed in pain, is still the sweetest thing of all.