He heard his daughter’s voice saying “Dad” from the hospital room next door… But she died in a car accident over a year ago.
Mark pressed his back against the cold hospital wall, his coffee cup trembling in his hands.
“Dad, look what I drew!”
The voice was identical. Sarah’s voice. His seven-year-old daughter who’d been gone for fourteen months.
He stumbled toward room 314, peering through the crack in the door. A little girl with dark curls sat up in her hospital bed, holding up a crayon drawing to a woman who couldn’t be her mother.
“That’s beautiful, Emma,” the woman said, but her smile looked forced, worried.
Mark’s chest tightened. The laugh was Sarah’s laugh. Even the way she tilted her head.
“Excuse me.” A doctor appeared beside him. “Are you family?”
“I… no. I thought I heard…” Mark’s voice cracked. “My daughter died last year. Car accident. But that voice…”
Dr. Martinez studied his face carefully. “What was your daughter’s name?”
“Sarah. Sarah Chen-Morrison. She was seven.”
The doctor’s expression shifted. “Mr. Morrison. I think we need to talk.”
They walked to a quiet alcove. Dr. Martinez pulled up a file on her tablet.
“Your daughter was an organ donor,” she said gently. “Emma received Sarah’s heart fifteen months ago. She’s been here for follow-up care.”
Mark’s legs nearly gave out. “Her heart?”
“Sometimes recipients develop… echoes. Speech patterns, preferences. It’s rare, but documented.” Dr. Martinez touched his arm. “Emma’s been asking to meet you.”
“She knows about me?”
“She dreams about a man who calls her ‘little artist.’ She draws the same flowers your daughter loved.”
Mark looked back toward room 314. Emma was showing her drawing to a nurse now—sunflowers, just like Sarah used to draw.
“Her mother, Lisa, has been hoping you’d visit. Emma keeps saying she needs to tell ‘her dad’ something important.”
Mark walked back to the room. Lisa looked up, recognition dawning.
“You’re Sarah’s father,” she whispered.
Emma turned, and Mark saw his daughter’s eyes—not the color, but the spark. The mischievous glint Sarah got when she was proud of her artwork.
“Dad!” Emma beamed. “I knew you’d come. I made this for you.”
She held up the drawing. At the bottom, in shaky letters: “Thank you for my strong heart. Love, Emma (and Sarah).”
Mark knelt beside the bed, tears streaming. “Sarah always said her heart was big enough for everyone.”
Emma nodded solemnly. “She told me that too. In my dreams. She said to take good care of it, and to tell you she’s not really gone.”
Lisa wiped her eyes. “Emma’s been healthy for over a year now. The doctors say her heart—Sarah’s heart—is perfect.”
Mark touched Emma’s hand. “Would you like to hear stories about the girl whose heart you have?”
“Yes! She shows me things in my dreams, but I want to know everything.”
As Mark began telling Emma about Sarah’s love for art, her laugh at silly jokes, her way of making everyone feel special, he felt something shift inside his chest.
The crushing grief that had suffocated him for fourteen months began to lift. Sarah wasn’t gone. She was here, laughing through Emma’s giggles, creating through Emma’s drawings, loving through Emma’s generous spirit.
“She’s still here,” he whispered.
Emma patted his hand with seven-year-old wisdom. “I know, Dad. She never left.”
