“I read stories to patients sometimes,” the boy answered. “It helps them forget where they are.” He hesitated, then added, “My name is Jonah.”
There was no rehearsed cheerfulness in his voice, no attempt to impress. He simply stated the truth, and something in that honesty made Michael step aside to let him pass.
Jonah entered Rebecca’s room quietly and sat near her bed without touching anything. For several minutes, he said nothing at all, allowing the silence to settle naturally. Then he took one of the colored papers and began folding.
“What are you doing?” Rebecca asked, her voice barely audible.
“Making something,” Jonah replied. “My aunt taught me when I was little. She said that paper listens if you are gentle with it.”
Rebecca watched with cautious interest as the paper transformed into a small bird, its wings slightly uneven but unmistakably alive in shape. Jonah placed it on her blanket.
“For you,” he said.
Rebecca touched it carefully, as if it might break. “It’s nice,” she admitted.