“I don’t need money,” she replied. “Just food.”

Something in her certainty irritated him. Or unsettled him. He wasn’t sure which.

“You don’t even know my son,” Marcus said.

She tilted her head. “He wakes up crying at night but doesn’t have the strength to make sound. He likes space books. He’s afraid he won’t get to be nine.”

Marcus froze.

The air seemed to tighten around them.

“How would you know that?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him and repeated, “I’m hungry.”

Against his better judgment, Marcus led her to the hospital café. He ordered more food than she could possibly eat.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t hoard. She ate slowly, gratefully, as if each bite mattered.

When she finished, she wiped her hands and stood.

“Now take me to him,” she said.

Security tried to stop her. Doctors protested. But Marcus—exhausted, desperate, and shaken—overrode them all.

Julian lay pale and still, machines humming around him.

The girl approached the bed. She didn’t touch him. She didn’t chant. She didn’t pray out loud.

She simply sat beside him and whispered something no one else could hear.

Minutes passed.

Nothing happened.

A doctor scoffed. “Sir, this is cruel—”

Then the monitor beeped.

Once.

Twice.