I watched seasons change.

But there was a space in my life shaped exactly like a child whose birthday I remembered every year.

On that afternoon in the hospital, Lillian arrived carrying a bag with clean pajamas, a hairbrush, and the old photograph album I had kept hidden beneath my sweaters.

“You’re supposed to bring comfortable things to someone in recovery,” she said, setting down the bag.

“I figured the only comfortable thing you need right now is proof that you weren’t imagining him.”