The months blurred by, and spring finally settled in, making the cherry blossoms bud in front of the hospital. Ariane had become a regular. She didn't just come for exams anymore; she came to see us. She was always the same: radiant, kind, and possessing a calm that commanded respect.

  Since she was keeping it a secret from her parents, my small team and I had become her only support system. That day, I decided to break protocol just a little.

  I pushed the door open, holding a small brown paper bag.

  "Surprise!" I exclaimed.

  Ariane, sitting by the window with a book in her hands, startled. She turned her head, then burst into a mocking little laugh.

  "Are you absolutely sure you’re a doctor? Because if you do that to all your patients, you’re going to end up giving someone a heart attack."

  I scratched the back of my neck, feeling a bit sheepish.

  "If that happened, I suppose I’d be forced to resuscitate them myself..."

  "Tsk, ahaha!" she let out, resting her book on her knees.

  I sighed with a smile, closing my eyes for a moment to savor the quiet of the room.

  "Come on, shall we start our snack?"

  She wiped a small tear of laughter from the corner of her eye.

  "Yes, let’s!"

  We settled in to chat about mundane things, far away from medical files and blood tests. I handed her a piece of cake. She took a bite and chewed slowly under my impatient gaze.

  "Well? Is it good?" I asked.

  She swallowed, looked at me very seriously, and then dropped:

  "No."

  "What?!" I choked, shock written all over my face.

  Seeing my expression, she doubled over, unable to hold it in any longer.

  "Ppppfffhhh... Hahahahahaha!"

  "Why you...!" I grumbled, laughing along with her.

  I leaned in and ruffled her hair affectionately, as an older brother would.

  "I’m going to give you bitter medicine, you’ll see!"

  "No, no! Stop it!" she laughed, trying to protect her head. "It was delicious, I’m sorry! I’ll stop, I promise!"

  After finishing our snack, I threw the remains in the trash, my heart feeling light. It was then that Ariane spoke again, her voice suddenly lower, almost solemn.

  "When my daughter is born... I want her to be strong. Like a little bird that isn't afraid of the wind. I want her to be much stronger than me."

  I stopped dead. I turned slowly toward her and, without thinking, I placed my hand on her head with a fatherly tenderness.

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  "You are already very strong, Ariane. More than you think."

  For a brief moment, her gaze wavered. She seemed surprised, as if no one had ever told her that before. Then, she regained her composure and gave me a silent smile a smile that seemed to say thank you for seeing me for who I am.

  In the following days, something in her seemed to lighten, almost imperceptibly. Perhaps that’s why, one afternoon, as I passed by her room, I found her in the middle of a fierce battle with a notebook and three different colored pens. She was frowning, her tongue slightly sticking out, in a state of concentration worthy of a university entrance exam.

  "An urgent medical problem?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  "Worse than that, Doctor," she replied without looking up.

  "I’m looking for a name. But everything I find is either too serious or completely ridiculous."

  I stepped closer and glanced at her list. I could see names like "Super-Hina," "Cloud," and even "Tanashina."

  "'Tanashina'? Seriously?" I choked. "It sounds like a brand of cheap vitamins."

  She burst out laughing and threw her notebook at my face (which I caught clumsily, nearly falling over).

  "Hey! It’s a tribute! But you're right, it’s ugly."

  She softened and stroked her stomach with a gentleness that touched my heart.

  "I want a name that shines, even when it’s dark. Something short. Hina. That means 'sunshine,' doesn't it? Or 'chick'? I want her to be like a little ray of light that no one can blow out."

  I remained silent, moved by her determination. To encourage her, I spent the next half hour drawing ridiculous chicks wearing superhero capes in the margins of her notebook.

  "Doctor Tanashi... you really draw like a five-year-old," she snickered, looking at my masterpieces.

  "It’s my 'abstract' style," I replied with dignity. "It’s highly sought after in artistic circles."

  She smiled, a true smile, and carefully tucked the notebook under her pillow.

  "Thank you, Doctor. Promise me one thing? If I’m ever too tired to tell her stories... will you show her your ugly drawings to make her laugh?"

  "I promise, Aria. But I can't guarantee she won't have nightmares from my chicks."

  She laughed again, and for a moment, we could have forgotten we were in a hospital, and that she was all alone in the world.

  A few days later, something in her seemed to lighten, almost imperceptibly. One afternoon, as I passed by her room, I caught her leaning over the coffee table, her fingers folding and refolding a sheet of blue paper with extreme concentration. Her tongue was slightly out, like a child learning to write.

  I knocked softly on the glass pane of the door.

  "Am I disturbing you?"

  She looked up, and her face lit up with that smile I was beginning to know well.

  "Doctor! Come in, come in! I’m just finishing."

  I approached. On the table sat a small paper crane, perfect every fold crisp and precise.

  "It’s beautiful," I said. "You know how to make origami?"

  She shrugged, a bit embarrassed.

  "I remember someone taught me when I was little. I don't remember who. But I haven't forgotten the movements. It’s funny, isn't it? The things that stay."

  She took the crane delicately between her fingers as if it were a treasure.

  "In legends, it brings good luck. Especially for babies. I thought... well, that she would like it. Her."

  She placed her hand on her stomach as she said this. A gesture that had become habitual, but still tugged at my heartstrings.

  "Where do you want me to put it?" I asked.

  "On the windowsill. That way, when the sun rises, it shines a little."

  I took the crane and placed it where she indicated. The blue paper caught the light, and for a moment, it looked alive.

  "It looks like you," I said without thinking.

  Ariane looked at me, surprised.

  "The crane?"

  "Yes. Fragile in appearance, but solid in reality. And blue, too."

  She laughed softly, a sound that felt almost like a caress.

  "You’re talking nonsense, Doctor."

  But she smiled as she looked at the paper bird, and I knew she understood what I meant.

  I left the room that evening convinced that, despite the difficulties, everything would turn out normally.

  I was wrong.

  The following week, spring had vanished behind a curtain of torrential rain. Water battered the hospital windows with a dull violence. I headed toward her room, report in hand.

  "Well, good morning Aria..."

  The sentence died in my throat. The room was plunged into darkness; the lights were off. In the shadows, I could make out a slumped silhouette on the bed. Ariane was alone, sitting cross-legged, her shoulders shaking with muffled sobs.

  She was crying. Not like a high schooler who got a bad grade, but like someone whose entire world had just collapsed.

  "Ariane?" I whispered, approaching quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. "What’s happening? Where is Mila?"

  She lifted her head toward me, her blue eyes drowned in tears and red with distress.