One month later. The atmosphere in the ICU that afternoon was quiet. Only the sound of the monitor and the ticking of the wall clock could be heard clearly. Behind the glass, little Cecilia’s frail body still lay on the white bed, IV tubes and a breathing machine still attached. But there was a blush of pink on her cheeks again—a sign she was starting to respond to the treatment.

Nana sat in the waiting chair, clutching her small handbag. Her eyes were swollen, but they remained fixed on Cecilia.

Hans stood beside the bed, gently stroking the child’s small hand. “Sweetheart... if you can hear Daddy’s voice, wake up,...