We were heading out like usual, running late, my coffee half-drunk and her shoes barely on. Then she froze. Right there by the porch, stretched out in a patch of shade, was this rabbit—raggedy-looking but totally relaxed, like it belonged there.

I figured it would bolt. But it didn’t. She slowly sat down next to it, legs sprawled, not saying a word. I was about to shoo it off so we could get moving, but something about the way she looked at it—like they already knew each other—made me stop.

She missed preschool that day. And the next.

I kept thinking the rabbit would stop showing up. But it came back every morning. And every morning, she’d sit beside it in the same spot. No petting, no chasing. Just sitting there like it was all part of a bigger plan I wasn’t in on.

The strangest part? She started sleeping better. Eating more. The tantrums basically disappeared. When I asked her why she liked the rabbit so much, she said, “He listens when no one else does.”

And then she added, very softly, “He said Mama’s still here.”

My stomach dropped. We hadn’t talked about her mom in weeks. It was too hard. Too fresh. She was only four. I thought maybe the memories would fade, become less heavy. I was wrong.

The rabbit didn’t come from nowhere, but it might as well have. No neighbors had lost one. No pet store nearby was missing anything. I even put up a post online with a blurry photo I’d taken one morning. Nothing. Not a single claim.

Eventually, we stopped trying to explain it.

I started sitting with them some mornings. Just for a minute or two, while my coffee cooled and the sunlight warmed the porch. It was peaceful. Like time paused itself for that little stretch of day.

The rabbit never ran. It would twitch its ears, blink slowly, and stay close to her. Sometimes it’d hop in a circle and nudge her leg like it was encouraging her. But mostly, it just stayed still. Present. Like her mom used to be.

One day, as we sat in our little morning triangle, I asked, “What do you two talk about?”

She gave me this look kids give when they’re sure you wouldn’t get it. But then she said, “He helps me remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Her songs. Her voice. The way she laughed when I wore socks on my hands.”

It floored me. Because I used to think those memories were mine to keep. But clearly, she’d held on to them too. Maybe even tighter.

I stopped rushing to work. We started leaving late on purpose. I called it our “rabbit time.” It became the most stable part of our day. Until one morning, the rabbit didn’t show.

She waited. I waited. But he never came.

She didn’t cry. She just stood up, brushed off her knees, and said, “He had to go help someone else.”

That was it.

I tried to reassure her. “Maybe he’ll come back tomorrow.”

She shook her head, very certain. “He said goodbye last night.”

That part caught me off guard. “You saw him last night?”

She nodded. “In my dream. We danced in the living room.”

The living room.

The exact place where her mom used to dance with her. The night before she got sick, they had played music and spun around barefoot. It was one of the last happy memories before the hospital visits began.

I couldn’t say anything. My throat closed up. She just took my hand and pulled me toward the car.

No more rabbit after that. But things didn’t go back to the way they were before. She stayed calm. Slept fine. Her little spark—whatever the rabbit had lit up inside her—it stayed on.

Weeks went by. Then months.

One afternoon, she brought home a crayon drawing from school. It was a lopsided bunny and a girl holding hands. Well, paws. I asked her who it was.

“That’s me and Clover,” she said.

“Clover?”

“The rabbit,” she said simply, like I should’ve known all along.

Of course he had a name.

That night, after she fell asleep, I opened the photo app on my phone. I scrolled back to that first blurry picture. I zoomed in.

I don’t know why I hadn’t looked at it closely before. But this time, I noticed something. The shadow beneath the rabbit—it didn’t match. The light was coming from behind, but the shadow stretched sideways.

Like something else had been there beside him. Or someone.

A chill crept up my arms. But not the scary kind. The kind that feels like someone brushing past you gently.

Life carried on. She started kindergarten. Made friends. Laughed more. Every now and then, she’d mention Clover. Always in past tense, never sad.

One weekend, we visited her mom’s favorite hiking trail. It had been over a year since we’d gone. Too many memories. Too many ghosts. But that day felt right.

We walked slowly. She picked up rocks. I carried snacks. And then, at one point, she stopped.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

I listened. Wind. Birds. Then something else—very faint, almost like humming.

She looked at me with wide eyes. “That’s the song Mama used to hum.”

I couldn’t hear it clearly, but I nodded. “Maybe she’s saying hello.”

She smiled. “No. She’s saying she’s proud.”

That night, I found her asleep with the old rabbit drawing clutched in one hand.

I didn’t know what to make of any of it. Still don’t, if I’m honest. But whatever magic was at work, it helped her heal. Helped both of us heal.

Years passed.

She’s eight now. Wiser than most adults I know. Still keeps the drawing in her bedside drawer. Every once in a while, she’ll take it out, hold it for a second, and say, “Thanks, Clover.”

And one day, when I picked her up from a playdate, her friend’s mom pulled me aside.

“I hope this doesn’t sound weird,” she said, “but your daughter told my son something that really calmed him down. He was crying about his grandpa passing, and she said, ‘Sometimes someone soft comes to sit with you, so you don’t forget love.’”

I felt my eyes sting. That sounded like her. That sounded exactly like something she’d say.

Later, I asked her about it.

She shrugged. “Well, that’s what happened to me.”

And then she said something I’ll never forget: “Clover didn’t come to make me forget Mama. He came so I’d remember without hurting.”

That’s when I understood. Some losses don’t get smaller. We just grow around them. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, someone or something shows up to help.

I don’t pretend to know what Clover was. Maybe just a rabbit. Maybe something more. Maybe her mom sent him. Or maybe the world’s just kinder than we give it credit for, now and then.

But I do know this: Every time I see a rabbit now, I slow down.

Because maybe, just maybe, someone else is sitting on a porch, in a patch of shade, remembering someone they loved. And maybe that rabbit’s there to help them through.

Life doesn’t always come with explanations. Sometimes, it comes with quiet moments, small comforts, and unlikely friends. And if we’re paying attention, those are the things that change everything.

So the next time you see something strange—a rabbit that doesn’t run, a child who suddenly smiles again, a moment that feels too warm to explain—don’t rush past it. Sit down. Listen. You might just find the healing you didn’t know you needed.

And if you’ve ever had a “Clover” in your life—someone or something that helped you remember without hurting—share this story.

Because healing doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes, it looks like sitting still with someone who listens.

If this touched you, give it a like and share it with someone who might need a little rabbit magic too.