The nurse told Taylor that the little girl might not even know she was there. Lily was 9 years old and she was dying. Endstage brain cancer. The doctor said she had days left, maybe hours. She hadn’t spoken in over a week. Hadn’t really responded to anything in days, but her parents had made one final request through Make a Wish.

 Could Taylor Swift come to the hospital and sing to their daughter just once, just so Lily could hear her favorite singer’s voice before she died? Taylor said yes immediately. And on a gray November afternoon in 2017, she walked into a hospital room, not knowing if the little girl would even know she was there.

 What happened in that room changed Taylor forever, because Lily did know, and the last word she would ever speak, the final sound she would make before leaving this world would be a single request again. November 2017, Taylor was in the middle of the Reputation era, preparing for the upcoming tour. She’d been doing interviews, rehearsals, planning, all the usual chaos that comes with launching a massive stadium tour.

And then the call came from Make a Wish. There was a 9-year-old girl named Lily who’d been fighting brain cancer for 3 years. She’d been through surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, everything the doctors could throw at it. But the cancer had won. It was in her brain stem now, inoperable, untreatable. The doctors had sent her home with hospice care.

 days left, maybe a week if they were lucky. Lily’s parents had asked Make a Wish if there was any way, any possible way that Taylor Swift could visit. Lily had loved Taylor since she was 6 years old. Had posters all over her bedroom walls, knew every word to every song. Her favorite was Love Story. She’d made her parents play it on repeat during chemo sessions, said it helped her forget about the pain.

 Now, Lily was in a hospital bed and she was dying. And all her parents wanted was for their daughter to hear Taylor sing one more time before she was gone. Taylor didn’t hesitate. She cleared her schedule, didn’t tell the press, didn’t bring cameras, just got on a plane and flew to the children’s hospital where Lily was staying in paliotative care.

 When Taylor arrived at the hospital, Lily’s parents met her outside the room. They looked exhausted, devastated, like people who’d been watching their child die for 3 years and were finally at the end. Thank you for coming, Lily’s mom said, and she was already crying. We know how busy you are.

 We know this is Don’t, Taylor said gently. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Lily’s dad took a shaky breath. We need to prepare you. Lily’s not she’s not really responsive anymore. She hasn’t spoken in over a week. Hasn’t opened her eyes in 3 days. The doctors say she can probably still hear us, but we don’t know for sure. She might not even know you’re here.

 Taylor felt her throat tighten, but she kept her voice steady. That’s okay. I’m here anyway. They opened the door to Lily’s room. It was decorated with balloons and drawings from classmates and Taylor Swift posters covering almost every wall. And in the middle of it all was a hospital bed. And in that bed was the smallest, most fragile looking little girl Taylor had ever seen. Lily was tiny.

 The cancer and the treatments had taken so much from her. She was bald from chemo. Her skin pale, her breathing shallow. She had an oxygen tube in her nose and an IV in her small arm. Her eyes were closed. She looked like she was already half gone. Taylor walked slowly to the bedside. Lily’s parents stood against the wall, holding each other, crying quietly.

Taylor sat down in the chair next to the bed and looked at this little girl who loved her music so much that her dying wish was to hear Taylor sing. Hi, Lily,” Taylor said softly. “My name’s Taylor. I heard you wanted to meet me.” No response. Lily’s chest rose and fell slowly. The monitors beeped steadily.

That was all. Taylor reached out carefully and took Lily’s small hand in hers. It was so light, like holding air. Your mom and dad told me that Love Story is your favorite song. Is that true? Nothing. Just the sound of the monitors and Lily’s shallow breathing. Taylor looked back at Lily’s parents.

 They were both crying, holding each other up. This was it. This was their daughter’s last day, maybe her last hours, and they’d asked Taylor to be here for this moment, whether Lily knew it or not. Taylor turned back to the little girl. She kept holding Lily’s hand. And then, very quietly, she started to sing.

 We were both young when I first saw you. Taylor sang a capella. No guitar, no microphone, no production, just her voice. soft and clear, singing directly to this dying nine-year-old girl who might not even be able to hear her. I close my eyes and the flashback starts. I’m standing there. Taylor watched Lily’s face as she sang, looking for any sign, any response, but there was nothing.

 Lily lay still, eyes closed, barely breathing. Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. And then it happened. Halfway through the song, as Taylor sang Romeo, Save Me, she felt it. The smallest movement. Lily’s hand, which had been completely limp in Taylor’s, squeezed, just a little, just barely, but it squeezed. Taylor’s voice caught for a second, but she kept singing.

 She looked up at Lily’s parents. They’d seen it, too. Lily’s mom had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Her dad was staring at their daughter’s hand in Taylor’s, barely breathing. I’ve been feeling so alone. Another squeeze, stronger this time. Lily’s fingers wrapping around Taylor’s. And then, oh god.

 Then Lily’s lips started moving, not making sound yet, just moving like she was trying to form words, trying to sing along. Taylor kept singing, tears streaming down her face now. But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Marry me, Juliet. You’ll never have to be alone. Lily’s eyes fluttered, not opening, but moving beneath her eyelids like she was trying, like she was fighting to get back, to be present for this moment.

 I love you, and that’s all I really know. Taylor finished the song, her voice shaking on the last line. It’s a love story, baby. Just say yes. Silence. Just the monitors beeping. Lily’s hand still holding Taylor’s. And then, so quietly that Taylor almost missed it, Lily spoke. First words in over a week.

 First sound she’d made in days. Again, one word, barely a whisper, but clear, definite again. Taylor looked at Lily’s parents. They were both sobbing now. Their daughter had just spoken. Their daughter, who hadn’t said a word in a week, who they thought might never speak again, had just asked for more. Taylor squeezed Lily’s hand and leaned in closer.

 You want me to sing it again? Another small squeeze of Lily’s hand. Yes. So Taylor sang it again all the way through. And when she finished, Lily’s lips moved again. Again. Taylor sang it a third time, and then a fourth, and then a fifth. Each time she finished, Lily would whisper that same word again, not asking for a different song, not asking for anything else, just more of this one.

 More music, more moments, more life. By the sixth time through, Lily’s hand was squeezing Taylor’s in rhythm with the song. By the seventh time, Lily’s lips were moving with almost all the words. No sound coming out, but clearly, undeniably singing along. Lily’s parents were on their knees beside the bed now, holding their daughter’s other hand, crying and laughing, and watching their little girl be present for these final moments.

After days of silence and stillness, their daughter was here. She was responding. She was asking for more. Taylor sang Love Story eight times that afternoon. eight full performances of the same song, each one just for Lily. Each one answered with that same quiet request again. After the eighth time, something changed.

 Taylor finished the final just say yes, and she waited for Lily to ask for more. But this time, Lily didn’t speak. Her hand, which had been squeezing Taylor’s through every song, slowly relaxed. Her breathing, which had been a little stronger during the singing, became slower, deeper, more peaceful. Taylor looked at Lily’s face.

The little girl looked calm, more peaceful than she’d looked since Taylor had arrived, like something had been completed, like she’d gotten what she needed. “Lily,” Taylor said softly. “No response, but not like before. This was different. This was Lily resting. Really resting.” Lily’s mom reached out and touched her daughter’s forehead.

 “She’s asleep,” she whispered. “Really asleep? She hasn’t slept peacefully in days.” The three adults sat there in silence, watching Lily breathe in and out, slow and steady. The monitors showing a rhythm more peaceful than it had been in weeks. After about 20 minutes, Taylor carefully released Lily’s hand and stood up.

 Lily’s parents walked her to the door. “Thank you,” Lily’s dad said, and his voice broke on the words, “Thank you for giving us that, for giving her that.” We got to hear her voice again. We got to see her respond. That was a gift. She’s an amazing little girl, Taylor said, and she meant it. This tiny 9-year-old who’d used what might have been her last words to ask for more music, more beauty, more life.

 Taylor left the hospital that evening. She went back to her hotel. She sat in her room and cried for an hour straight, thinking about Lily sleeping peacefully after eight rounds of love story. The next morning, Taylor’s phone rang. It was Lily’s mom. Lily had passed away during the night peacefully in her sleep without pain.

 Her parents had been with her. She’d been resting the same way she had been after Taylor sang to her. Calm and peaceful and still. And the last word Lily had spoken, the final sound she’d made in her 9 years of life was again. Not goodbye, not I love you, not I’m scared, just again. One more song, one more moment, one more piece of beauty before the end.

 Taylor hung up the phone and broke down. This little girl, who’d spent 3 years fighting cancer, who’d been through more pain and fear than most people experience in a lifetime, had used her last words to ask for more music. Not because she was afraid of dying, but because the music made her happy, made her present, made her feel alive.

 A week later, Taylor attended Lily’s funeral. The family had invited her, and she’d said yes without hesitation. The service was small, family, close friends. some of Lily’s classmates. The room was full of Taylor Swift posters that Lily had loved. At the end of the service, Lily’s parents asked Taylor if she would sing.

 Taylor stood up in front of everyone, no microphone, no music, and sang Love Story one final time. For Lily, for her parents, for everyone who’d loved this little girl who’d fought so hard for so long. Taylor cried through the entire song. So did everyone else in that room. But she made it through all the way to the end. It’s a love story, baby.

 Just say yes. After the funeral, Lily’s mom hugged Taylor and said, “You gave her eight more songs, eight more moments of joy.” At the end, when we thought we’d lost her already, you brought her back to us for a little while. Thank you. Taylor has never talked publicly about Lily.

 She’s never mentioned the hospital visit or the funeral in interviews. But people who know her say that something changed after that November day in 2017. That she started taking Makea-Wish requests more seriously, that she started showing up at hospitals more often, that she understood in a way she hadn’t before what music could mean to someone at the end.

 And Love Story, the song she’s performed thousands of times, the song that launched her career, the song that made her famous, became different for her after that day. She still performs it at concerts, still sings it with energy and joy. But the people closest to her say there’s a shadow in it now. Oh, wait. A memory of a 9-year-old girl who asked to hear it eight times because 8 wasn’t enough would never be enough.

 Because that’s what again meant. Not I want to hear this song again, but I want more time. I want more life. I want to stay a little longer. And she got that for eight songs for maybe an hour. Lily got to be present, to feel joy, to squeeze Taylor’s hand and mouth the words to her favorite song. She got to be there with her parents and with her favorite singer. She got a little more time.

 The last word Lily ever said wasn’t goodbye. It was a request for more. And in a way, she’s still getting it because every time Taylor performs Love Story now, part of her is singing it for Lily. For the little girl who loved it so much that she used her last words to ask to hear it again. Not everyone gets to choose their last words.

 Most people don’t. But Lily did. And she chose hope. She chose beauty. She chose more. Again, such a simple word. Such a powerful word. Not an ending. A request for continuation. For more songs, more moments, more life. Lily didn’t get more life. She died that night peacefully after hearing Love Story eight times. But in those final hours, she got something else. She got to be present.

She got to feel joy. She got to hear her favorite song sung directly to her by the person who’d made it. She got eight moments of pure happiness at the end of a life that had been defined by pain. That’s what again meant. And that’s why Taylor Swift will never perform Love Story the same way because now she knows that somewhere somehow she’s still singing it for Lily, the little girl who fought cancer for 3 years and used her last breath to ask for one more song.

And if you listen closely, if you really listen, you can hear it in Taylor’s voice. The weight of that memory, the gift of those eight songs, the power of that single word. Again, Mark, it’s not an ending. It’s never an ending. It’s a reminder that even at the very end, people don’t ask for more suffering. They ask for more beauty, more music, more love, more life.

 Lily asked for more. And for eight perfect songs, she got it. That’s what music can do. That’s what presents can do. That’s what showing up. Even when someone might not know you’re there can do. Taylor showed up. Lily woke up. And together for a little while, they had again and again and again and again.

 Eight times until it was time to rest. And Lily’s last word became a reminder. Every moment is asking for more. Every breath is an again. Every song is a gift. Taylor Swift sang Love Story eight times to a dying 9-year-old girl. And the ninth time she sang it at Lily’s funeral, she understood what she’d been given. Not just the chance to make a little girl happy, but the reminder that music matters, that presence matters, that showing up matters, that again is the most hopeful word in the world.

 Because even at the end, we’re asking for more, more moments, more love, more beauty, more life. Lily got eight songs and then she rested peacefully after using her last word to ask for what we all want. Again, more. Just a little longer. Just one more song. And somewhere every time Taylor performs Love Story, she’s giving Lily exactly that again.