When I pulled up the security footage that night, my hands were shaking. There was Max, waving at the window as always. But near the old treehouse, a shadow moved—something that looked like Ellie.

Life used to be perfect. Richard and I had two amazing kids—Ellie, 12, full of questions, and Max, 8, her devoted shadow. We were the family others envied, until Ellie got tired. Then came unexplained bruises. The diagnosis shattered us: acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

Ellie fought hard. Hospital stays replaced normal life. She lost her hair but never her spirit. “I look like a warrior,” she’d say. We believed she’d beat it—until she didn’t.

Grief tore us apart. Richard buried himself in work. Max withdrew. I just tried to breathe.

Then Max began waving at the window every evening. “Ellie,” he said when I asked who he was waving at. “She waves back.”

I checked our security footage. Max was there—waving. And a silhouette near the treehouse waved back. A girl in Ellie’s favorite purple sweater.

The next evening, Max led me outside. “This was our magic place,” he whispered. Suddenly, a girl stepped from the shadows—it wasn’t Ellie. It was Ava, Ellie’s best friend.

Ellie had asked her to come. To look out for Max. To wear her sweater. To keep the memory alive.

Now, every evening, we all wave together. Sometimes Ava joins us. We tell stories, laugh, and cry. Grief still lives with us, but so does Ellie—in the love we carry, and every wave Max sends to the sky.