One night, after Eveli’s parents had fallen asleep in the waiting room, Emma sat by the child’s bedside. She didn’t speak. Instead, she took a small notebook from her pocket and began to draw—a clumsy, loving sketch of two children holding hands under a sky filled with stars. Above them, a huge, soft-looking angel with mismatched wings (one feathery, one made of light) watched over.

Because angels, Emma learned, are not the ones who fly. They are the ones who stay on the ground, hold a dying girl’s hand, and listen for the warmth on a pillow.

Emma stopped breathing.