“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” I reached out, touched her cheek softly. “You're fighting so hard, Em. Every day you wake up and choose to keep going, even when it hurts. That's beautiful. That's brave. That's everything.”
She threw her arms around my neck. Small and fragile and fierce all at once. I held her carefully, like she was made of glass, feeling her silent sobs shake against my chest.
When she pulled back, she was smiling through the tears. “Can I keep treasures in it?”
“That's what it's for. Special things. Important things. Things that remind you why you're fighting.”
“I'm going to put my rabbit collection in it. And the card my dad sent from America. And the bracelet Nurse Rachel made me.” She looked up at me. “And I'll remember you made it for me. When I'm scared at night and the medicine hurts. I'll look at it and remember.”
I had to look away. Had to blink hard against the burning in my eyes.
Viktor stood by the door, and when I glanced at him, his expression was wrecked. Raw. Like seeing this had cracked something inside him he'd kept carefully sealed.
“I'll come visit again soon,” I told Emma. “Bring you some new drawings to hang up. Maybe some of those terrible jokes you like.”
“The ones about chickens?”
“Those are the ones.”
She giggled. Actual joy. In this terrible place, surrounded by machines and medicine, she still had space for laughter.
We left her examining her treasure chest, running her fingers over every carved detail like she was memorizing it through touch.
Marcus was next. Five years old. Cerebral palsy that affected his legs but left his mind sharp and quick. He was in the play room, strapped into a specialized chair that kept him upright, watching other kids run around with an expression that broke my heart.
“Marcus, my man.” I dropped into a crouch beside him. “How's it going?”
“Okay.” He had this way of talking, slow and careful, like every word cost effort. But his eyes were bright. Curious. “Did you bring me something?”
“What makes you think I brought you something?”
“Because you always bring me something.” He grinned. Gap-toothed and perfect.
I pulled out the rocking horse. Painted in blues and greens, mane carved to look like it was mid-gallop. The rockers were wide andstable, designed for a chair to lock into. Marcus could sit in his chair, lock into the horse's frame, and rock. Move. Have agency over his body in a way his condition usually denied him.
His mouth dropped open. “Is that...?”
“For you. Want to try it?”
Viktor helped me set it up while Nurse Rachel unlocked Marcus's chair. We transferred him carefully, Marcus's thin legs dangling, his torso supported by the specialized seat. Then we locked the chair into the horse's frame and stepped back.
“Try rocking forward,” I said.
Marcus leaned. The horse moved. Back and forth. Back and forth. Momentum building with each shift of his weight.
And he laughed. Pure, unfiltered joy. The kind of laugh that makes you believe good things still exist in a broken world.
“I'm riding a horse!” He rocked harder, faster, grinning so wide I thought his face might split. “Look, I'm riding a horse!”
Other kids stopped what they were doing. Came over to watch. Clapped and cheered as Marcus rode his horse in place, moving and free and happy.
I looked at Viktor. Found him staring at Marcus with an expression I couldn't read. Pain and wonder mixed together. Like watching this hurt and healed him simultaneously.
“Good?” I asked Marcus after a few minutes.
“The best.” He was breathless. Flushed. Alive. “Can I keep it forever?”
“Forever's a long time. But yeah. It's yours.”
