The boy turned to leave, moving towards the door with a grace that was almost ethereal. Richard wanted to stop him, ask questions, demand explanations, but something held him back. Perhaps it was the strange, serene certainty in the boy’s eyes. Or maybe it was the desperate, clinging hope that this was real.

Minutes passed, turning into an hour. The rhythmic beeping of the machines was the only sound in the room, each beep a reminder of Emily’s fragile state. Just as Richard was about to resign himself once more to the inevitable wait, something happened.

A twitch. Emily’s finger moved, almost imperceptibly, but enough to catch the eye of a vigilant father. Richard leaned forward, not daring to breathe. Then, before his disbelieving eyes, Emily’s eyelids fluttered, as if roused by the gentlest of breezes. Her eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first, then locking onto her father’s tear-filled gaze.