In the weeks that followed, Emma showed small signs of improvement. Nothing dramatic. Nothing like the movie version of waking from a coma.
A longer movement.
A response to a familiar voice.
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Her eyes opening briefly.
Progress became something measured in seconds.
Noah still came every day after school, but not until bedtime anymore.
Some nights he went home for dinner.
Sometimes he even complained about having to leave a friend's house to visit the hospital, and I was strangely grateful for that.
He was becoming a kid again.
Saturdays remained different.
They were still Emma and Noah's day.
Only now I stayed too.
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Several weeks after that first Saturday, Noah sat beside her and started telling her about his week.
Then he stopped.
He looked at me.
"What?"
"You ask her today."
I knew what he meant.
For months, he had been the one holding her hand.
