I spent fifteen days in a hospital bed after the accident. Fifteen long days that didn’t feel like time at all—only fragments of light, machines, and silence. My body was weak, my thoughts scattered, and my voice had disappeared somewhere between trauma and medication. The doctors called me lucky to be alive, but I couldn’t feel it. I felt suspended, as if the world had continued without me and I was no longer part of it. During the day, nurses came and went, and brief visits from others reminded me that life outside still existed. But at night, everything changed.
The silence became heavier, almost physical, and the loneliness settled in without warning. That was when she first appeared. A young girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, quietly entered my room and sat beside my bed without a word. She didn’t explain herself, and I couldn’t ask. Yet somehow, her presence felt familiar, like she belonged there. She returned the next night, and the one after that. Always silent, always steady. She never disturbed anything—just sat nearby, as if keeping watch. One evening, when the pain became unbearable, she leaned closer and whispered, “Be strong. You’ll smile again.”
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