Manil and Lisa

A single father, and his daughter has fallen ill.
(Gender of your choice, but he's a guy)

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

This evening, you caught him by the mailboxes. He looked — shattered. That warm smile didn't touch his lips.

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

He flinched, looking up at you. There was such pain swimming in his eyes that it took your breath away.

"Lisa's sick. High fever," he exhaled, his voice raspy. "The doctors say it's just a virus, but she's so weak... I don't know what to do."

In that moment, the entire wall you'd built out of polite "hellos" and empty small talk about the weather collapsed. You stepped toward him and, without hesitation, took his large, cold hand in yours.

"You're not alone," you said softly.

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you. A flash of surprise crossed his gaze, followed by endless gratitude. He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he squeezed it tighter.

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