But the most astonishing moment came six months later.

Sophie was in Jonas’s backyard, chasing the family dog, when she suddenly stopped beneath an old chestnut tree.

“She wants you to dig here,” she told him.

Jonas blinked. “Who?”

“Isla,” Sophie said simply.

He hesitated, but something in her certainty compelled him. Together they dug. And there, in a rusted tin box, was a folded piece of paper.

The handwriting was unmistakably Isla’s.

“Daddy,” it read, “the angel told me I won’t grow up, but one day a little girl with yellow hair will come. She’ll sing my song and save you when you’re hurt. Please believe her. Don’t be sad—I’ll be riding with you forever.”

Jonas sank to his knees, tears flooding his weathered face. Sophie wrapped her small arms around him and whispered, “She likes your red bike. She always wanted you to have one.”

He stared at her, stunned. Just before the crash, he had secretly bought a red Harley—Isla’s favorite color. He had never told a soul.