For six unbearable days, our daughter Laynie lay unconscious in a hospital bed, machines keeping rhythm while we clung to fading hope. Since the seizure, she hadn’t opened her eyes. The doctors spoke gently but dodged our questions—“Time will tell,” one said, more warning than comfort.
We tried everything: music, books, her strawberry shampoo—Milo, her little brother, even talked to her daily. Still, no response. Until Ava came.
A quiet classmate Laynie often mentioned, Ava arrived with braided hair and a crumpled drawing of Laynie’s favorite cartoon characters inside a heart. She gently placed it on the pillow and sat quietly, humming, unbothered by the machines. It felt so small, so simple—yet something shifted.
A faint twitch. Then another. Laynie’s finger moved. And in that tiny motion, everything changed.
