I married my patient knowing she had only three days left to live — but after her funeral, her sister approached me with a small box and whispered, “She made me promise not to give you this until she was gone.

I recognized my seven-year-old face immediately. I was wearing a blue sweater, and my front tooth was missing.

But it was the little girl standing beside me who made my hands shake.

I hadn’t seen that face in twenty-three years.

“Where did Alicia get this?” I whispered.

Her sister, Rebecca, looked away.

“Lucas, there’s something you need to know about my sister.”

I turned the photograph over.

On the back, someone had written:

Lucas and Ellie. Summer, 2003.

My knees almost gave way.

Ellie.

That was the name of my childhood best friend.

When I was seven, I spent almost three months in the hospital after a serious illness. My parents visited whenever they could, but they worked long hours and couldn’t always stay.

During those lonely weeks, I met a little girl named Ellie.

She was five years old, had enormous brown eyes, and laughed at everything.