I knew I was crossing a dangerous line. One mistake could cost me everything. But turning back was impossible.

I cleaned my tweezers, warmed the oil, let a few drops fall. Slowly. Patiently. Then I pulled.
A millimeter. Another. And suddenly, with a faint sticky sound, the obstruction gave way.

On the tissue lay a small round blue Lego piece, followed by a compact wad of cotton — lodged there for years.

Lucien suddenly sat upright. His eyes widened.

The hallway clock chimed.

He flinched… then screamed. A scream of shock, not pain.
He could hear.

“Da… da…” he whispered, discovering his own voice.

When Arnaud burst in, furious and ready to destroy me, Lucien broke free from his arms and repeated the word.

His father fell to his knees and, his voice broken by tears, thanked me as one thanks someone who has just restored life to what was believed lost forever.

Today, Lucien plays the violin before sold-out halls. And every time I hear him, I think of that small piece of blue plastic.

Silent proof that miracles do not always fall from the sky.

Sometimes, they are simply waiting for someone to dare to look differently.