Thirty-five, though Daniel did not know that yet.
Blonde hair.
Closed eyes.
No movement.
He sat.
“Hi.”
The absurdity returned.
“I’m the idiot from last night.”
Silence.
“Daniel.”
He opened the violin.
“My daughter Emma says I’m supposed to play for you.”
Nothing.
“She’s nine, so apparently neither of us gets a vote.”
Daniel positioned the instrument.
“Same song.”
He began.
His playing was better tonight.
Not because technique improved overnight.
Because terror no longer occupied every muscle.
He let the melody breathe.
Halfway through, Lena passed the doorway.
Victoria remained completely still.
The monitor continued its measured rhythm.
Daniel finished.
No awakening.
No dramatic medical response.
Only quiet.
He packed the violin.
Then saw the small card near flowers.
Still facedown.
He did not touch it.
“Good night, Victoria.”
He stood.
“Emma gets discharged tomorrow.”
Then, without knowing why:
“I hope somebody has good news for you too.”
He left.
The next morning, Emma insisted on stopping outside Victoria’s room before going home.
She wore pajama pants under her winter coat and moved slowly because illness had drained her.
Daniel kept one hand near her shoulder without touching unless needed.
They looked through glass.
Victoria lay exactly as before.
Emma whispered:
“She’s pretty.”
Daniel nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Can I go in?”
“I don’t think so.”
Lena appeared.
“She can, if she’s feeling well enough.”
Daniel looked.
“You sure?”
Lena nodded.
Emma entered.
She did not approach too close.
She stood near foot of bed holding purple rabbit.
“Hi, Victoria.”
Daniel leaned against doorway.
Emma continued:
“My dad says he played bad.”
“I did not.”
Emma ignored him.
“My mom was better.”
Daniel closed eyes.
Betrayal.
Emma looked at unconscious woman.
“My mom died.”
Daniel’s throat tightened.
“But Dad says people don’t disappear all the way if you remember what they gave you.”
Daniel had never said exactly that.
Emma had built the sentence from pieces.
She continued.
“So maybe you have somebody remembering.”
Victoria did not move.
Emma waited several seconds.
Then set a small folded paper on the bedside table.
Daniel saw what it was later.
A drawing.
A bird flying over two beds.
One small.
One large.
Between them, a violin.
Beneath it, Emma had written:
FOR WHEN YOU WAKE UP.
Daniel did not correct the certainty.
They went home.
He expected that to be the end.
It wasn’t.
Three days later Lena called.
Daniel stared at the unknown hospital number before answering.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Carter? Lena Ortiz.”
His stomach tightened.
“Emma’s fine.”
She said it first.
He exhaled.
“Okay.”
“Sorry. I should’ve started with that.”