“For not believing,” David said quietly. “I’ve been replaying that trial in my head for a week. I’ve known Catherine Westbrook for ten years. She is a machine of logic. She never makes emotional decisions. Never.” He looked down at Lily with a newfound respect. “If she was willing to bet her career on this child… then maybe I was the fool for doubting her.”
He turned his gaze to the doctor. “Doctor Harrison, isn’t there some way? What harm could it do?”
“It breaks every protocol I have,” Dr. Harrison argued, though his resistance was wavering. “She is unconscious. She wouldn’t even know the child is there.”
“But I would know,” Lily said firmly. “And Judge Catherine’s spirit would know.”
An elderly woman in the corner stood up. “Let her in, Doctor. If the Judge doesn’t wake up soon anyway… what do we have to lose?”
Dr. Harrison looked around the room. He saw the pleading faces of the community. He had practiced medicine for thirty years, relying on science and data. But he also knew that sometimes, medicine hit a wall.
“Five minutes,” he grunted, checking his watch. “The child gets five minutes. But that is all. And you come with her, Mr. Mitchell.”
The ICU was a different world—a place of rhythmic beeping and hushed urgency. Dr. Harrison led them down a long, sterile corridor to Room 304.
Judge Catherine lay in the bed, looking terrifyingly small. Wires snaked from her chest to monitors that pulsed with green lines. An oxygen tube was taped to her face. Her skin was the color of parchment, and a large bandage covered her forehead.
“She looks so peaceful,” Lily whispered, walking up to the bedside without a hint of fear.
Robert stayed by the door, his heart hammering. He felt like an intruder in a sacred space.
Lily climbed up onto the visitor’s chair so she could reach the bed. She studied Catherine’s face for a long moment, then reached out and placed her small hand gently on the Judge’s limp arm.
“Hello, Judge Catherine,” Lily said softly. “I know you can’t hear me with your ears right now. But I’m hoping you can hear me with your heart.”
The only answer was the steady beep-beep-beep of the cardiac monitor.
“I know you’re scared,” Lily continued, her voice filling the small room with warmth. “When you fell down at the park, it reminded you of your car accident, didn’t it? It made you remember how scary it was when your body got hurt before. Now your spirit is hiding again.”
Dr. Harrison, standing by the foot of the bed, crossed his arms. He watched, mesmerizingly skeptical, as the child conducted her therapy.
“But Judge Catherine, I need you to remember something important,” Lily said, stroking the woman’s arm. “Do you remember how it felt when we were dancing by the duck pond? Do you remember the wind? Do you remember how light you felt?”
Robert held his breath.
“That happiness is still inside you,” Lily insisted. “It’s just hiding because it’s dark where you are. Like being lost in a forest at night. But I have a flashlight.”
Lily closed her eyes and placed both her hands on Catherine’s arm. “Can you see the path, Judge Catherine? It’s made of all the beautiful memories you’ve forgotten. There’s the memory of you dancing as a little girl in your pink tutu. There’s the memory of your first day as a judge, when you were so proud to help people. There’s the memory of Mr. Waddles the duck trying to eat your shoe.”
Suddenly, the rhythm of the beeping changed. It sped up, then steadied into a stronger, more robust cadence.
Dr. Harrison’s eyes snapped to the monitor. “Her heart rate… it’s stabilizing. Blood pressure is rising.”
“That’s it,” Lily whispered, her eyes still closed. “You’re finding the path. You’re walking back to the light. You’re remembering who you really are. You aren’t just a judge in a chair. You are a whole person.”
Catherine’s index finger, resting on the white sheet, twitched. Once. Twice.
“She’s responding,” Dr. Harrison whispered, his voice losing its professional detachment.