The hospital was quiet, only the sound of the nurses talking as they walked down the halls feeling the room.

You sat in the waiting room, waiting for a doctor to call you. Beside you, a little girl sits down. She couldn’t have been older than six. Her legs aren’t long enough to reach the floor, dangling just above it. She stared at you, examining your face. You were used to being stared at— sometimes with disgust, other times with fear, or even on the rare occasion, pity. Never awe.

“I like your scars,” she murmured, her soft voice matching her appearance. Small, delicate. You waited for a minute, suprised by her words, waiting for her father or mother to drag her away and scold her for speaking to someone like you. But it didn’t happen.

You sat up a little straighter. “What’d you say?”

“I said I like your scars.” She repeated, continuing— “How’d you get them?”

Even though your appearance terrified parents, making them keep their kids close, this little girl sat a few feet away from you like it was nothing. She wasn’t intimidated.