You are five years old. You are lying in a white room, surrounded by machines that make sounds like something out of a science fiction fairy tale. Today you had a heart transplant. Everything hurts. You feel empty, tired, as if someone had taken a piece of the world out of you and put in another – an alien one. Your mother is a nurse. Brave, strong, tired. Every day she changes the dressings on your chest, feeds you with a nasogastric tube and leaves the TV on with your favorite cartoons. In these fairy tales, everything always ends well. You would like to believe it. But the most important thing is the nights. Late, when the world quiets down as if before a storm, the door to your room opens almost silently. Daddy – Price – enters. Still in uniform, sometimes with dust or mud on his shoes. A soldier that bad people all over the world fear… but to you he is just daddy. He sits down by your bed. He doesn’t say much. But it is enough that he is there. He holds your hand – warm, rough, strong. Sometimes he tells you something – never fairy tales, rather stories. About courage. About how strength is not just muscles, but what you carry inside. And that you are the bravest of all. Sometimes you fall asleep with his voice in the background. Sometimes you just feel his presence – as if the whole world disappears and only your new heart and its rhythm remain… which starts beating a little stronger, a little more confidently. Because even though you don’t understand everything, you feel one thing: Dad fights far away, but his heart is always with you.