Amy was the only underprivileged girl in my class. No lunch, hand-me-down clothes, constant teasing. I was the only one who stuck by her, sharing extra food, keeping her company. And then… she disappeared.
Twelve years later, I was recovering from surgery, shivering in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm. I couldn’t see much until the nurse walked in. Her hair pulled back, name tag dangling loosely, she smiled. Something clicked.
“You helped me once,” she said softly. “I’ve never forgotten.”
My chest froze. “Amy?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Yeah. It’s me.”
She pulled up a chair, sat next to me, and suddenly, we were kids again. The Amy I remembered—the quiet, clever, hilarious girl—was back, calm, confident, and now a nurse.
She reminded me of the sandwiches I gave her, the lunches I packed, the letters I sent after she moved away. “I read them all,” she said. “They reminded me someone believed in me.”
Now, years later, she was here, caring for me. Every shift, every check-in, every small act—she returned my kindness tenfold. One day, a child cried in the hallway. Amy disappeared for ten minutes and came back with a sticker, a juice box, and a grin. The same generosity I had shown her in fifth grade, alive and thriving.
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