For six days, our daughter Laynie lay in that hospital bed, hooked up to machines that beeped too steadily for our liking. She hadn’t opened her eyes since the seizure. The doctors were careful with their words, but I caught the way they avoided mine.

“Time will tell,” one of them said, which felt like code for don’t hope too hard.

We tried everything—music, her favorite books, even the scent of her strawberry shampoo. Her little brother, Milo, talked to her every day, telling her what he built with Legos and which cereal he wanted to mix next. But nothing. Not a flicker.

Then came Ava.

She was this quiet girl from Laynie’s class, the one Laynie always said had a cool pencil case and told funny jokes under her breath. We didn’t expect anything when her mom asked if she could visit. I mean, how could a classmate do what specialists couldn’t?

But the moment Ava walked into the room, everything shifted. She was small, with her dark hair tied into two messy braids, holding a piece of paper crumpled in her hand. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, but there was a quiet confidence about her that surprised me.

“Hi, Laynie,” she whispered, walking carefully to the side of the bed where Laynie lay motionless. She didn’t seem intimidated by the machines or the sterile smell of the hospital room. She just looked at my daughter like she was a friend who was simply taking a nap, not someone fighting for her life.

“She really likes these,” Ava said softly, sitting down beside the bed and placing the crumpled piece of paper on Laynie’s pillow. “I thought you might want them.” She gently unrolled the paper, revealing a drawing—Laynie’s favorite cartoon characters, done in vibrant colors, with a heart around them that read “Get well soon, Laynie!”

I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. I glanced at my husband, and we exchanged a confused look. Ava had brought a drawing—sure, it was sweet, but was this really going to help? Would it even make a difference? The doctors had told us to prepare ourselves for the worst. This was beyond something as simple as a drawing.

But Ava didn’t seem to be in any rush. She sat quietly by the bed, humming a little tune. Laynie’s room was filled with the soft sound of the machines and the occasional tap of Ava’s finger on the page. She didn’t speak much, just sat there as though she were waiting, patiently, for something. I watched her in awe, not understanding why I was so captivated by her presence. This little girl—this classmate—had an unspoken calmness about her.

And then something happened. A subtle, almost imperceptible change. Laynie’s finger twitched. At first, I thought it was just my imagination. I blinked, trying to process it. But then I saw it again. Another tiny movement, like the faintest flicker of light in a dark room.

I held my breath, staring at my daughter. Ava continued humming, completely unaware of the effect her presence was having on my daughter. I wanted to shout for a nurse, but I didn’t want to jinx it. I wanted to savor this moment, however small, just in case it was the start of something bigger.