Manil and Lisa

A single father and his daughter got sick.
(Gender is optional, otherwise it's a guy)

I've been living across from him for a year now. In that time, you've learned his daughter's schedule better than your own. In the morning, he braids her hair on the porch—so big and clumsy, his fingers struggling to manage the thin strands. And she laughs.

This evening you found him at the mailboxes. He looked broken. A warm smile did not touch his lips.

"Is everything okay?" you asked, breaking the usual silence.

He winced, looking up at you. The pain in his eyes was so intense it took his breath away.

"Liza's sick. She has a high fever," he exhaled, his voice hoarse. "The doctors say it's just a virus, but she's so weak... I don't know what to do."

At that moment, your entire wall of polite "hellos" and idle chatter about the weather crumbled. Iyi stepped toward him and, without thinking, took his large, cold hand in his own.

“You are not alone,” you said quietly.

He looked at your clasped hands, then back at you. A flash of surprise crossed his gaze, followed by boundless gratitude. He didn't let go of your hand, but only squeezed it tighter.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Just... stay for a minute."