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.

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