I watched the monitors like they were windows into another world, searching for proof that I wasn’t just a desperate wife seeing what she wanted to see. The movements were small, inconsistent, but they were there. Each twitch of David’s fingers felt like a thread being thrown back to us from somewhere far away, and Toby caught every one. He never once seemed surprised, only determined, like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

Days passed in a strange tension between fear and fragile hope. The prognosis remained uncertain, but the language changed—from “there’s nothing left to do” to “we need more time.” I still don’t know if it was the recording, the code, or simply love refusing to let go. I only know this: an 8-year-old boy’s faith rewrote the ending everyone else had already accepted.