Before we came to earth, someone once said, if we were ever afraid of anything, it wasn’t death — it was birth.
We didn’t fear going home.
We feared leaving it.
And none of us, not one soul, would have chosen to come here without the promise that it was a round trip — not a one-way ticket.
That thought, to Brielle’s mother, was the most comforting truth she had ever held onto.
Because lately, every breath, every heartbeat, every flicker of her daughter’s eyelashes had started to feel borrowed.
Precious.
Fleeting.
Brielle was only seven years old, but her soul seemed far older.
She had a wisdom in her eyes that no child should carry — the kind that comes when a spirit has known both joy and pain, both heaven and earth.
In the soft light of her bedroom, surrounded by her favorite books and pink blankets, Brielle was sleeping again.
Her mother had learned to measure time not in hours or days, but in the moments when her daughter’s eyes opened — just long enough to whisper, “I love you, don’t ever forget.”
It had been two days since Brielle had last spoken clearly.
She wasn’t in pain, but she was tired — a kind of tired that went beyond the body.
Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings, lifting for a moment, then falling again.
Sometimes, her mother would sit beside her bed and trace small circles on her hand, whispering prayers that only a mother could pray.
She didn’t cry much anymore.
The tears had come and gone like storms, leaving behind the quiet ache that followed every parent who knew they were running out of time.
Still, there were memories — bright, unbreakable memories.
Just a week earlier, Brielle had insisted on going to the library.
It had been one of her favorite places, and even when her body was weak, her determination was stronger.
So they packed her in her wheelchair, wrapped her in her favorite blanket, and went.
The library had always been her little world of wonder.
The smell of paper, the soft hum of whispers, the sunlight streaming through tall windows — she loved it all.
And that day, she wanted to go straight to the Barbie books.
She ran her small fingers along the spines, smiling faintly as if greeting old friends.
Her mother watched, holding back tears, memorizing every detail — the pink bows in Brielle’s hair, the way she tilted her head when she read, the soft hum she made when she found a page she loved.
“She’s still here,” her mother thought.
“She’s still my little girl.”
Every moment like that felt like a gift wrapped in grief — something beautiful and unbearable all at once.
As night fell, the family gathered quietly around her bed.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and medicine.
Machines hummed softly, their rhythmic beeping marking time in ways the heart could not bear to count.
Her father read her a story — the same one he had read when she was little, about a butterfly who was afraid to leave her cocoon.
In the story, the butterfly asks, “What if I never come back?”
And the wind answers, “Then you’ll know what it’s like to fly.”
That night, as her father closed the book, he looked at Brielle and realized the story wasn’t just about butterflies.
It was about her.
Every person who met Brielle said the same thing: she radiated light.
She made people gentler.
She made people remember what really mattered.
Even doctors who had long since learned to hide their emotions would linger a few seconds longer by her bedside.
One nurse whispered, “She’s teaching us something holy, even as she sleeps.”
Her parents often wondered if she somehow knew.
If her soul — pure, brave, and old as time — had chosen this path long before she was born.
Maybe when she was still in heaven, she saw her parents’ faces and said, “I’ll go. I’ll find them. Even if my time is short, I’ll love them with everything I have.”
Maybe she knew that her story would touch hearts she would never meet.
Maybe she wasn’t here to stay.
Maybe she was here to remind everyone that love — even when it hurts — is still worth it.
Her mother liked to imagine that.
Because the alternative — that it was all meaningless — was something she refused to believe.
In the quiet hours of the night, when the world outside slept, she would sit by Brielle’s side and think about that idea: that life was a round trip, not a one-way journey.
That every soul came here to learn, to love, to feel, and then, when the time was right, to go home again.
She imagined Brielle’s soul in that other world before she came — bright, curious, full of joy.
Maybe she had been told, “You’ll face pain, and your time there will be short.”
And maybe Brielle had answered, “That’s okay. I just want to love them.”
It broke her mother’s heart and healed it at the same time.
Because in that belief, death stopped feeling like a thief.
It began to feel like a reunion waiting to happen.
Still, there were moments of unbearable fear.
Moments when Brielle’s breathing slowed, when her chest barely rose and fell, and her parents held their own breath, terrified that this might be the last time.
Her mother learned to listen for the faintest sound — a sigh, a whisper, a heartbeat.
And every time Brielle’s eyes opened, even for 90 seconds, she whispered the same words:
“I love you, don’t ever forget.”
One evening, as sunlight filtered through the window, her mother sat with her hand resting on Brielle’s chest.
She could feel the small, steady rhythm beneath her palm — fragile but still there.
It reminded her of something she had once read: “We have more friends behind the veil than on this side, and they will so joyfully welcome us home.”
The thought no longer scared her.
Because maybe, just maybe, heaven wasn’t a faraway place.
Maybe it was just the next room over.
That night, as Brielle slept, her parents whispered stories to her about all the things she loved — libraries, Barbie books, pink flowers, and laughter.
They promised her that if she needed to go, it was okay.
They told her that love would follow her wherever she went.
And in that small room, with the soft hum of machines and the quiet rhythm of breathing, heaven felt closer than ever.