In fifth grade, Amy was the girl everyone overlooked — too-short sleeves, taped-up shoes, and often nothing in her lunchbox. The first time I noticed her pretending to chew, I slipped half of my sandwich across the table.
She refused at first, but I insisted, and from that day on, I brought extra food. Kids whispered and laughed, but I stayed by her side. Amy was quiet until she opened up, and then she was brilliant — funny, sharp, and an artist with a pencil who once sketched us swinging on the playground. That drawing stayed in my notebook like a secret treasure. Then one Monday, her desk was empty, and just like that, she was gone.
Years passed, and I never stopped wondering about her. Then, after surgery one day, I opened my eyes in a hospital bed to find a nurse checking my IV. She smiled warmly and said, “You’ll be okay. You helped me once — I never forgot.” It took me a moment to realize it was Amy. She explained how her family had moved suddenly,
