Insight of a Kenyan Girl

The next morning, a folded paper crane sat on my bedside table.

I blinked at it, half convinced it had appeared out of nowhere. Pale blue, neatly creased, perched beside the lilies like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

Tucked under its wing was a note, scribbled in handwriting that was just a little messy:

“When you’re ready. – Patty”

No pressure. No demands. Just a quiet offering.

I turned the crane over in my hands, my chest tightening against the strange ache blooming there. No one had ever waited for me like that before. No one had ever offered something without asking for something in return.

I smiled, the first real one in days.
Maybe weeks.

Later that afternoon, the discharge papers finally came through.
Freedom smelled like antiseptic soap and fresh hospital sheets.

I shuffled through my belongings — a plastic bag with my clothes, my worn-out phone, the hoodie still wrapped around my frame — and hesitated when I reached for the crane.

I tucked it carefully into my hoodie pocket.

The nurse on duty gave me a soft smile.
“Someone’s been visiting you every day,” she said, signing my forms. “Only stayed a few minutes each time. Just left something small and went.”

I swallowed.
Every day.

I hadn’t even known.

Outside, the sunlight was too bright.
It made everything — the cars, the pavement, the trees — feel too sharp, too alive.

I paused at the hospital entrance, uncertainty anchoring my feet to the ground.

Was he really waiting?
Or had he just left the crane and moved on?

I didn’t have to wonder long.

Across the parking lot, leaning against an ancient motorbike that looked like it had survived a hundred bad decisions, was Patty.

Helmet dangling from one hand. Smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret he didn’t mind keeping.

When he spotted me, he didn’t wave or call out. He just straightened and waited, letting me come to him if I wanted.

Choice.

The thing I hadn’t been given much of lately.

I took a deep breath and started walking.

Step by step.

Toward the boy with the paper cranes and the patience to match.

Toward something I wasn’t ready to name yet.

Toward hope.