Twelve years have passed since that day.

Even after so long - more than a decade - the memory is engrained on my hippocampus, engraved permanently onto my retinas. I can't stop seeing it.

I can see the limp body being thrown on the whiteboard covered in notes and ideas. I'm supposed to be focusing, but how can I focus? It's a wonder I got my doctorate.

"Lee?" I glance up at Dr. Eschima. His expression is expectant. Patient, understanding, but expecting more. "Please try to pay attention. This is a difficult case."

I know that. It's not like I don't know. I nod along and force myself to read the scribbles of ink on the board, to process them and think about the problem at hand. For a few moments of sanctuary, I am able to forget how you looked that day on the asphalt.

I'm not so lucky when I get home that evening. After being busy at work, my brain is tired, and I can't force myself to solve more problems and do any more. I have to do something mundane to give my neurons a break... and the mundane things are what trigger flashbacks.

My mind drifts.

I wonder how you'd look at fifteen.

And instead of the kitchen sink, I'm turning around to see that you've dropped the dandelion someone picked for you in the park and you're bending over in the street and the plate drops out of my hands and shatters on the tile floor.

I pick up the pieces and pretend they're shrapnel from a patient's body for distraction. I have to be careful picking up this one, because it could sever that artery. This piece, I have to maneuver around the liver. When the floor is clean, I dispose of the shards (into a medical specimens bag) and go to my room.

Brushing my teeth is boring. Monotonous. Too much so. I rush it, forgoing my molars so I can hurry into bed. I lay down and pull up the covers and close my eyes and - it's as if I never pulled the shards of porcelain from the flesh of my tile-and-plaster patient.

A green SUV. The brakes lock and it skids and your little body flies and I was already running but no, not fast enough.

Not fast enough.

Never fast enough.

Nothing I could do.

Everything I could do.

What if I had kept you by my side? What if I had held onto you? What if I had properly warned you of the dangers of the road? What if I had turned around faster? What if I had held your flower for you?

You were so confident, so proud of the sunny yellow petals and chartreuse stem. You promised you wouldn't drop it.

You promised, and you broke your promise, and it's all my fault.

Sometimes, I blame you. Sometimes, the driver of the green SUV. But deep down I always know it was my fault.

I go to sleep that night with a pillow damp with tears.

The following day, when I get to work after a skilled breakfast (as I always do) and a difficult drive (as it always is) there's a case. It's early, but it's an emergency, and I arrived as it did. A girl. Three years old, was in a car T-boned from the side. She's barely breathing.

Her hair is black.

It's just like yours.

My coworker yells at me to get to work, but I can't. It's you. I can't operate on my own daughter. That's... against the law. It's illegal. I can't... provide medical care to a family member. I back away. No. I can't do it.

The other doctor pulls me forward. Her mouth is moving, but I can't hear what she's saying. You're here, and - your heart stops.

I rush forward. CPR. They intubate. I watch the machines. They shock you, and your small body lurches. Once - twice -

and you're back to a regular rhythm.

They need to operate, and I insist to be on the case. I have to make sure you're okay. The operation is long, difficult. The orthopaedic surgeon comes in to splint a broken leg while I work on the abdominal injuries. Seven hours, and you're stable.

You're safe.

You look very small on your little cot as they roll you into your room. You're still hooked up to machines, but not life support; you're breathing just fine on your own.

I sit down and wait for you to wait up from the surgery.

A nurse comes in after just a few minutes and show a couple into the room. They're black-haired, Asian, and for a second I don't know why they're here.

I stand. The girl on the bed is their daughter. Not mine. No, mine was lost twelve years ago in that fatal accident. This young couple would have had to go through what I did.

I introduce myself as one of the surgeons that worked on you - no. Their daughter. She is not you. They thank me graciously, shaking my hand. The mother cries, and even though they don't say anything, I know they want me to leave. I do so. I slip out of the room and close the door behind me, and I leave the little girl with her family.

I guess it wasn't really my fault.

Maybe I could have done something. But I didn't, and that was a coincidence. I should have been more careful, but... I didn't know. No one knew. This couple very nearly faced the same tragedy I have lived with over the last decade, but they didn't. They were lucky, and I was not. It's nothing more than that. It's not fair, and it will never be fair, but it was luck and fate that caused me to lose you that day.

That's why I became a doctor. To prevent others from going through something earth-shattering like that. Today? Today, I did.

I guess... now... I will just heal as many people as possible. I'll use my schooling to help. That was what I was born to do, even though you never got a grand destiny like I did. After I've fulfilled that destiny?

Well, then I'll get to meet you in heaven.