The first time Mary saw the robin, she thought it was a coincidence. A flash of red against the gray hospital window — a tiny bird resting on the sill while she lay in bed, weak and watching snowflakes melt against the glass.

But then he came again the next day. And the next. Always around the same time, just before visiting hours.

Mary had been in the ward for weeks after a long illness. The days blurred together: nurses checking monitors, the slow tick of the clock, the hum of fluorescent lights. Outside, Christmas was approaching, but inside the hospital, time had frozen.

The robin became her clock. His visits split the day in two — before he came and after he left. The nurses began to notice too. “Your little friend’s back,” they’d say, drawing the curtains wider so she could see him. Some said he came because the warmth of the building attracted him. Others said it was because she kept talking to him.

And she did. Every morning, she’d whisper to him through the glass — small things at first: how the soup was too salty, how the snow looked heavy, how she hoped to go home soon. It made her feel less alone, like her words had wings.

One night, her condition worsened. Machines beeped faster, and the world shrank to sound and fear. When she woke again, the storm had passed — outside and within. She turned her head, and there he was, feathers puffed against the cold, tapping gently on the frosted window.

She laughed, weakly, but it was the first time she’d laughed in months.

As the days went on, she began to walk again, each step watched by that small bird. The nurses joked he was her guardian angel with feathers. Mary started to believe them.

On Christmas Eve, she stood by the window for the first time. The robin tapped once, then twice, as if to say goodbye. The next morning, he was gone.

Mary returned home in January, thin but alive. Her garden was overgrown and silent. She missed the robin — until Christmas came again the next year, and a new one appeared on her windowsill. Same time, same day.

Now, every Christmas morning, she wakes early, makes tea, and waits. When the robin lands, she smiles and whispers, “You kept watch again, didn’t you?”

Some say robins are signs from loved ones, others say they’re just birds following instinct. But Mary doesn’t care what others believe. She knows some guardians don’t need halos. Some just need wings.

And every year, that red breast against the snow reminds her that the world still keeps its quiet promises — that even in the coldest winters, warmth finds a way back.