A boy stood a few feet away — about ten years old. His clothes were worn, his feet bare against the polished floor. His face was smudged, like a child who’d lived on the streets. But his eyes were calm. Ancient. Unafraid.
“Who are you? How did you get up here?” Michael demanded.
“My name is Daniel,” the boy said evenly. “She’s not gone. She’s just lost. I can bring her back.”
On any other day, Michael would have called security. But desperation makes room for impossible things.
“My daughter is dying,” he said hoarsely.
“I know,” Daniel replied. “That’s why I’m here. I just need to touch her.”
Michael hesitated only a moment before opening the door.
Inside, the machines continued their rhythm. Daniel approached the bed reverently.
“I need your permission,” he said softly. “You’re her father. Do you believe she can return?”
Michael looked at Sofia’s pale face.
“Yes,” he whispered, falling to his knees. “Please.”
Daniel climbed gently onto the bed and placed his hands on Sofia’s forehead. He closed his eyes.
The air shifted.
A faint silver light began to glow from his palms — soft, warm, undeniable. It spread over Sofia’s head and chest.
The monitor quickened.
Beep-beep-beep.
Her fingers twitched.