She gazes out the window. Her father has already scrubbed the graffiti from the wall and now rinses away the last traces of paint with the garden hose. About a month ago, someone started spraying red letters on the house opposite: “Everything will be fine!” The culprit worked under cover of darkness, so no one knew who was responsible.
“Who are they writing that for?” she wonders. “I wish it were for me. Maybe that tall boy from the other class finally found me…” It’s been six months since she last went to school—he could have tracked her down by now. But then she catches herself, realising how foolish the hope is, and tears well in her eyes. She sits quietly by the window, crying for a long time.
Outside, her father coils the hose and sweeps up spilled rubbish near the bins. She stopped speaking to him after waking from the coma. She asked where her mother was—when he couldn’t answer, she understood everything.
They told her the accident wasn’t his fault. He’d acted like a professional stunt driver, doing everything possible. Still, she blames him. He’s a man—he should’ve prevented it. At the very least, he should’ve died instead.
He doesn’t speak to her either. For nearly three months, he’s only looked at her with guilt. At first, he tried—apologising, begging for a single word. But when she stayed silent, he gave up. Now he disappears into work, sometimes leaving notes about staying late.
Recently, he told her about the upcoming operation. He’s saving every penny, working round the clock—even taking on caretaker duties in their building for extra cash. That’s why he’s the one now scrubbing the foolish slogan from the wall opposite her window.
Spring passes. The day arrives. They wait together in the pre-op room, stealing glances, saying nothing. As they wheel her away, he chases after the gurney, kisses her forehead, and whispers, “Everything will be fine…”
She repeats it like a mantra—over and over—as they transfer her to the table and the anaesthetist hooks up the drip. “Everything will be fine…”
The operation succeeds. By morning, the doctor assures her of full recovery. “You’ll dance again soon,” he says—maybe sincere, maybe just kind. Her father clings to the words more than she does.
At discharge, they give her crutches, instructions, and a physio schedule. Back home, she rolls straight to her window to check the wall. It’s clean—freshly painted, even. Days pass, marked by pills and exhausting exercises. Slowly, she progresses—standing with the crutches, then shuffling to the opposite wall. She avoids the window, afraid the message won’t return.
One night, parched from medication or the unseasonal autumn heat, she risks the hallway for water. Stumbling in the dark, she trips over her father’s abandoned rucksack. Two spray cans roll out—one uncapped, red paint still wet on the nozzle.
Leaning against the wall, catching her breath, realisation strikes. She sits at the kitchen table for hours, watching ice melt under her tears into salty puddles.
At dawn, she pulls on a jacket, pockets a can, and hobbles outside on her crutches. She returns at sunrise and collapses into bed.
Her father checks on her later, tiptoeing in to adjust the blanket. He pauses, studying her face—something has changed. The frown between her brows is gone. Her lips, tight for so long, now curl softly in sleep.
He moves to the window to draw the curtains but freezes. Through blurred vision, he stares at the uneven, freshly painted letters blazing scarlet in the morning light. After months of silence, the words he reads flood him with meaning:
“Thank you, Dad. Everything’s fine.”