I spent fifteen days confined to a hospital bed after a car accident—fifteen long days under glaring lights and the constant hum of machines. My body was injured, my voice muted, and the doctors said I was fortunate to be alive. But it didn’t feel like fortune. It felt like being trapped in a hollow space where time moved without me.
No one came. My children lived far away. Friends cared, but life pulled them elsewhere. Nights were the worst, when loneliness settled in.
Yet almost every night, a girl appeared. Quiet, maybe thirteen or fourteen, with dark hair tucked behind her ears and eyes far older than her years. She never spoke much, just sat beside me, hands folded, whispering, “Be strong. You’ll smile again.” Her presence became my anchor.
When I finally asked a nurse about her, they said no one had visited me like that—just hallucinations from medication and trauma. I believed them. I needed to.
Six weeks later, discharged and home, I found her waiting on my doorstep. Tiffany, the daughter of the woman whose car had hit me, had spent those nights wandering hospital halls, watching me fight to give her hope. She handed me a necklace—my grandmother’s, lost in the crash.
We hugged. Over time, I became like a mother to Tiffany. Every time I smile, I remember the quiet girl who changed my life with her simple, unwavering kindness.