I leaned over the edge of the bed and laid my open palm flat on Grace’s forehead, feeling the cool, healthy skin under my hand.

Three weeks later, the morning sun filled the sunroom of our small two-bedroom apartment on Maple Street.

Grace sat at a wide wooden desk in the sunny corner of the room, holding a graphite pencil over a fresh sketchbook.

I stood in the doorway with my morning tea, watching the steady, quiet movement of her hand as she drew the detailed outline of an oak branch.

To the left of her desk, hanging in a simple wooden frame on the freshly painted wall, was the original drawing she had made from her hospital window three weeks earlier.