He saw the pale skin, the surgical scar, and the quiet determination in his eyes. “Do you know what Emma told me once?” Daniel asked, fresh, clean tears welling in his eyes. “When she registered as an organ donor at nineteen, I was worried. I asked her why she wanted to do it. She told me, ‘Dad, if something ever happens to me, I don’t want my story to just end. I want to leave a window open for someone else.'”
Daniel reached out and placed his palm gently against Noah’s chest, right over the long surgical scar. Beneath his fingers, Daniel felt a rhythmic, powerful pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was strong. It was alive. It was the same stubborn, steady beat he had listened to through a stethoscope when Emma was a baby, the same beat he had felt when holding her close during childhood fevers.