ALANA sat at the window of the children’s ward in the hospital and inhaled deeply the fresh morning air, humming softly a sweet little song she heard as the wind passed by. It felt to her, always, like a few breaths of new life, but only for a while would she have that blessed feeling—then the pains and the coughing would start, racking her young, weak body.

In the chapel where she prayed, she often asked God, “Why me?”

No answers were forthcoming—at least not ones she could understand. Why she was sick, why her family didn’t want her, and why she couldn’t get better to live a life that every child desires. At six, there wasn’t much she could understand, so she prayed for the nighttime hours to go by so morning could come—when the wind sings for her, and she feels lifted on its wings, almost touching the clouds.

It was all she had to look forward to, for in her life, the tears of pain, day after day, stayed unwanted until the angels came.

The doctor came to start her daily examinations and treatments, and Alana, the chirpy one with that little more zest, would always walk around with her, talking to the other children to bring some cheer into their lives and some hope to live for another day—even though she too was dying.

No one from the children’s ward in the west wing ever went home again, for the deadly virus they were born with, inflicting their little bodies, would not go away—so God’s angels came often to take them, one after another, to that heavenly home in the skies.

The doctor gave Alana her medications last and said to her, “So how is this pretty, young doctor today?” Her kind, soft voice was something the children clung to.

Alana smiled, the dimples on her cheeks giving her such a quiet look. “I’m doing good, and then sometimes I’m not.”

“I know,” the doctor said, feeling regret for this little girl with such high spirits and enthusiasm, who was so amazing. It was as though she were saying, ‘It’s all wrong. I shouldn’t be here. I should be free to run, to play, to dance, to have a home and family.’

“Why doesn’t anyone come to see me?” she asked, sadness in her voice. “I’m not a bad girl.”

“No, you’re not. You’re such a wonderful child. But everyone is sad to see you like this.”

What else could the doctor say to this child? Her mother was no more, and her brother and sister wouldn’t know how to care for her.

“Do you think I can see them before the angels come for me?”

The doctor gave her a hug and reassured her her family would come to see her.

Alana lay on her bed and opened one of her storybooks, but she couldn’t read as tears misted her eyes. For in her little heart, she knew no one would come. Her mother had died when Alana was just two, and there wasn’t much she remembered about her—except that song borne by the wind, which she somehow knew by heart. A song filled with hopes and light to embrace and hold onto as the clock ticked away.

She took a deep breath, dried her eyes, and read her book of fairy tales until her eyes closed to sleep.

A soft whisper woke her, and she sat up, seeing one of the little mixed boys by her bedside.

“What’s the matter, Ryan?” she asked.

“I’m scared,” the little boy said, hopping onto her bed.

“What are you scared of?”

“That the angel might be coming for me, and I won’t be able to become a footballer.”

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not. Would you like me to read you a story?”

“Sure.”

She read to him, talked about birds and animals, fairies and elves, brave princes and mean ogres—and Ryan’s fear soon disappeared. But later that night, he came to her bed, touched her hand and said quietly, “I’ll miss you. You’re a really nice friend.”

She smiled and said, “I’ll be with you one day, too.”

On her seventh birthday, Alana sat at the window, her breathing a little slower, the colour in her cheeks a little paler, but she still found the strength to smile as she stretched her little handout, wanting to live a little, to feel the warmth of the sun, to walk in the rain, to find love.

She wouldn’t cry—not today. Never mind that Ryan was gone, never mind that no family would come to see her; there was still some cheer left in her little heart.

“Alana.”

A familiar voice called her name, then another, and she turned around—and a little cry escaped her lips.

It was her big brother and sister—those who were so close to her when she was a baby and who had become so far when she was diagnosed with the deadly virus.

“We’ve come to take you home today.”

They had grown tall and beautiful—a young man and woman, more mature, more sure of themselves.

She couldn’t believe it and looked at the doctor standing beside them, smiling. She had kept her word to the child.

The family she had craved for so much, the brother and sister she thought didn’t want her, had come for her. And they hugged and kissed her—for they too had felt lost when their mother and father had died, but now they understood how to care for her, to give her the love she wanted so much.

They took her hand and brought her home on her birthday, where there was chocolate cake, balloons, laughter, and happiness.

She hadn’t come into the world to stay for long because of the virus she inherited from her mother. A tomorrow for her was not guaranteed—but for all the days left to live, she knew they would be beautiful, with warmth and kindness from all those around her, until the angels came.