I had lost my husband and my daughter. Somehow, losing that rabbit felt like losing another part of it.
Part Two: Room 412
The years passed. I sold our house, moved into a small apartment, and eventually began working as a cleaning manager at the county hospital.
Then I met Daniel in room 412.
He had terminal cancer and only had a few months to live. He was also a widower and was raising his six-year-old daughter, Lily, whose mother was dead to give it birth.
The first time I really looked at Lily, I had completely entangled hair. Daniel was trying to brush him, but his hands were too weak.
“Dad is no longer very good at making braids,” he said.
“Give me that,” I said.
I made Lily a braid, just like I used to make them to Josie.
When I finished, Lily touched the braid carefully.
“Is it too tight?” I asked.
He denied with his head.
“No. It’s perfect.
That little girl came straight into my heart.
Soon, braiding it became our routine. I helped her with the spelling, I took her snacks and sat with her during Daniel’s treatments.
Sometimes Daniel looked at me in a strange way, as if he knew something he couldn’t tell me.
