Because according to Emily’s chart, the girl’s father had died months earlier.
At first, the hospital staff assumed the biker was probably a relative who simply didn’t like being inside hospitals. Some people avoided the smell of antiseptic, the machines, the long quiet corridors.
They still came to visit. They just stayed outside.
So for several days no one asked questions.
Every morning at exactly 8:00, the biker arrived.
Sometimes he rode in on a motorcycle. Other days he walked from the parking lot. But he always appeared at the same time and stood in the same place outside Emily’s window.
And he always brought something small.
One morning it was a paper crane folded from a diner receipt.
Another day it was a tiny plastic dinosaur.
Today it was the stuffed rabbit.
The nurses also noticed something else.
Emily waited for him.
Every morning.
Before breakfast. Before her medication rounds.
She would sit upright in bed, watching the window like she was waiting for sunrise.
And when the biker appeared, her whole expression softened.
Not excitement.
Relief.
Like someone had kept a promise.
The strange thing was that the biker never spoke.
The hospital glass blocked any sound.