She stared out the window. Her father had already scrubbed the graffiti from the opposite wall and was now hosing away the last traces of red paint. For nearly a month, someone had been spray-painting the words *”Everything will be alright!”* on the brick house across the street. The culprit worked under cover of darkness, leaving the neighbourhood guessing who it could be.
*Who are they writing that for?* she wondered. *Maybe for me. Maybe that tall boy from the year above finally found me…* It had been six months since she last stepped foot in school—he could’ve tracked her down by now. But then reality crashed in, and her eyes welled up. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she sat there, lost in grief.
Outside, her father coiled the hose and bent to pick up scattered rubbish with a dustpan. She hadn’t spoken to him since waking from the coma. She’d asked about Mum. His silence told her everything she needed to know.
The police said he wasn’t to blame for the crash—he’d done more than a stuntman could’ve to save them. But she blamed him anyway. *He should’ve done more. He should’ve died instead.*
He didn’t speak to her either. For three months, he’d only looked at her with guilt. At first, he’d begged for forgiveness, pleaded for just one word. Then he gave up. Now he vanished into work, leaving only the occasional note: *”Gone late. Back by morning.”*
Last week, he’d told her about the operation. He was saving every penny, working double shifts—even taking up odd jobs like scrubbing graffiti just to afford it.
Spring faded, and the day arrived. They spent it together in the pre-op room, stealing glances but never speaking. As they wheeled her away, he caught up, kissed her forehead, and whispered, *”Everything will be alright.”*
She repeated it like a mantra—as they lifted her onto the table, as the anaesthesiologist hooked up the IV—*”Everything will be alright.”*
The surgery was a success. By morning, the surgeon promised a full recovery. *”You’ll dance again,”* he insisted, whether he believed it or just wanted to. Her father clung to those words harder than she did.
At discharge, they handed her crutches—symbols of a second chance. A stack of instructions followed: medications, exercises, physio sessions.
At home, she wheeled straight to the window—had the words returned? The wall was blank, freshly repainted. Days crawled by in a haze of pills and gruelling rehab. Bit by bit, she forced herself to stand, then shuffle forward.
One evening, she finally mustered the courage to look outside. And there it was—the message, bold and red, waiting for her. *Everything will be alright.*
Summer waned. She could cross the room unaided now.
Then, one sleepless night, thirst drove her to the kitchen—her first solo expedition in months. Stumbling in the dark, her foot hit something heavy: her father’s rucksack, dumped mid-sprint to his night job.
A spray can rolled out, its nozzle still wet with red paint.
She froze, breath shallow, the truth crashing over her.
By dawn, she was dressed, the can tucked into her coat. She hobbled outside and didn’t return till sunrise, collapsing into bed the moment she reached it.
When her father came home, he tiptoed to her room, adjusting the blanket over her sleeping form. He lingered, studying her face—something had changed. The tension between her brows was gone. Her lips, so tightly pressed for months, now curled softly in sleep.
Drawn to the window, he pulled back the curtain—and froze.
Tears blurred his vision, but the jagged red letters on the neighbour’s wall burned clear: *”Thank you, Dad. Everything’s alright.”*