The clock on the wall said I’d been sitting there for hours, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d blinked. Watching her small chest rise and fall had become the only rhythm I trusted.
“Daddy…” she whispered, her voice soft, fragile.
“I’m here,” I said quietly, brushing a curl from her forehead. Her skin was warm again, color returning to her cheeks. Relief slid through me in a slow, painful wave.
She blinked at the light, then smiled. “The pretty aunt saved me.”
I froze. “Pretty aunt?”
“She’s the one who did my surgery,” Myra said proudly, clutching the blanket. “She talked to me before I fell asleep. She said brave girls heal faster.”
A sharp pain tugged at my chest.. There had been no female surgeon listed in the main report I’d seen, only assistants. But children don’t inven
