She stared out the window. Her father had already scrubbed the graffiti from the wall and was now hosing away the last traces of paint. About a month ago, someone had started spraying red graffiti on the house opposite theirs in the dead of night: “Everything will be fine!”. No one ever saw who did it.
“Who’s that message for?” she wondered. “Maybe it’s for me. Maybe that tall boy from the year above finally found me…”—though it had been six months since she’d last been to school. He could have tracked her down by now. But then reality would crash back in, her eyes brimming with tears as she sat silent by the window, weeping.
Outside, her father scrubbed the pavement, coiling the hose before fussing with the bins, scooping up scattered rubbish. She hadn’t spoken to him since waking from the coma. She had asked where Mum was—and when he couldn’t answer, she knew.
They had told her the crash wasn’t his fault. He’d done more than a stunt driver could’ve managed. Yet she blamed him all the same. He was the man—he should’ve prevented it. At the very least, he should’ve died instead.
He didn’t speak to her either. For nearly three months, he just looked at her with quiet guilt. At first, he’d tried—pleading, apologising, begging for a single word. But eventually, he gave up, disappearing into work, leaving only the occasional note saying he’d be back by morning.
Recently, he told her about the surgery. He was saving up, working double shifts, even taking on odd jobs like street sweeping to scrape together the money. That’s why it fell to him to scrub away the idiotic message outside her window.
Spring bled into summer. Then came the day. They sat together in the pre-op ward, stealing glances in silence. As they wheeled her away, he caught up, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Everything will be fine.”
“Everything will be fine,” she repeated like a mantra—on the gurney, under the anaesthetic, even as the world blurred into black.
The surgery was a success. At morning rounds, the doctor promised a full recovery. “You’ll be dancing again soon!” he said—whether he meant it or to cheer her up, she couldn’t tell. Her father hovered, clinging to his words more than she did.
They sent her home with crutches, a mountain of pills, and physio instructions. The first thing she did was wheel herself to the window—checking the wall. It was freshly painted, pristine.
Days passed in a haze of medication and exhausting exercises. Slowly, she managed to stand. Then, trembling, she shuffled to the opposite wall. A few times, she nearly looked outside—but fear stopped her. What if it was still blank?
One night, she forced herself. Leaning heavily on the crutches, she peered out—and there it was. The red letters, bold as ever: “Everything will be fine.”
Summer waned. She could move from bed to wall, wall to door. Then, one sleepless night, thirst drove her to the kitchen—her first unaided trip in months. In the dark, she stumbled over a heavy backpack left by the door. From its side pocket, two spray cans rolled out. One, uncapped, still glistened with wet red paint.
She clutched the wall, breathing hard—then the truth hit. She made it to the kitchen, where she sat for hours, watching ice melt into salty puddles under her tears.
Dawn was breaking when she pulled on her jacket, slipped a spray can into her pocket, and hobbled outside on crutches. She returned at sunrise, collapsing into bed.
Her father found her still asleep. He crept close, adjusting her blanket, then lingered—staring at her face, older now, softer. Something had changed.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains, painting her like a portrait. The furrow between her brows was gone. Her lips, tight for so long, curled faintly in sleep.
He moved to the window to draw the curtains—then froze.
Tears blurred his vision as he read the crooked, wobbling letters sprayed across the opposite wall. After all this silence, after all his waiting—there they were, the words that finally let him breathe:
*”Thank you, Dad. Everything’s fine.”*