She was three years old. Tiny. Standing still in the middle of all that chaos. She wore a pink-striped shirt that looked far too thin for how cold the night must have been. Her eyes were wide and searching, following the adults rushing past her like she was watching a world she didn’t belong to anymore.
Her parents didn’t survive.
We tried anyway. We always do. But when the doctor finally shook his head, the room went quiet in that particular way only hospitals know. Not silence. Just the absence of hope.
And there she was.
Alone.
No one had told her yet. No one knew how.
Continued on the next page
