A Miracle in Room 412: How Bergen Reilly Turned a Little Girl’s Last Wish into the Most Heartbreaking and Beautiful Moment in College Volleyball History

In the quiet corridors of Nebraska Medicine’s pediatric oncology wing, where the air is thick with hope and heartbreak, a 13-year-old girl named Mia Thompson had only one wish left.

“I only have 5 days left to live… and my last wish is to see Bergen Reilly play volleyball.”

Those words, written in shaky handwriting on a single sheet of notebook paper, were never meant to reach the outside world. Mia’s mother had placed the letter on the bedside table, intending it as a private dream for her daughter. But dreams have a way of escaping hospital rooms.

A nurse, moved to tears, shared a photo of the letter (with full family permission) on a private Huskers fan group. Within minutes, it spread to Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. Within hours, it had reached 12 million people. The hashtags #MiaWantsBergen and #PrayForMia exploded across social media. Strangers from Lincoln to Los Angeles, from Omaha to Osaka, began posting videos of themselves setting up mini-volleyball nets in living rooms, backyards, and even hospital hallways—anything to send Mia a piece of the game she loved.

And then, Bergen Reilly saw it.

The 22-year-old setter, the heartbeat and brain of the Nebraska Cornhuskers, the two-time Big Ten Setter of the Year, the woman who had just led her team to another Final Four appearance, was sitting in her apartment scrolling through her phone when the post appeared in her feed.

She froze.

The letter was dated three days earlier. Mia had written it after watching old Nebraska highlights on her tablet, her small hands trembling from the morphine. She had circled Bergen’s name in red marker and drawn a tiny volleyball next to it.

Bergen didn’t call her agent. She didn’t wait for permission from the athletic department. She didn’t even pack a bag.

She grabbed her keys, a signed Nebraska jersey, and a volleyball, and drove straight to the airport. By the time the first news alert hit—“Bergen Reilly Books Last-Minute Flight to Omaha”—she was already airborne.

Less than 30 minutes after landing, she walked into Room 412.

Mia’s mother, Sarah, was the first to see her. She stood up so quickly she nearly knocked over the IV stand. “You… you came,” she whispered, voice cracking.

Bergen smiled softly, eyes already shining with tears. “I’m here for Mia.”

The little girl, pale and fragile under a thin blanket, opened her eyes slowly. When she saw Bergen standing there in street clothes, holding a volleyball, her face lit up like the sun had just broken through the clouds.

“You’re real,” Mia breathed.

Bergen laughed through tears. “Very real. And I brought something for us to play with.”

What happened next will be remembered forever in Lincoln—and far beyond.

Bergen cleared a small space at the foot of the bed. She inflated the volleyball just enough to make it soft. She sat on a rolling stool beside Mia, and together they played the gentlest game of “volleyball” ever recorded.

Mia couldn’t lift her arms high, so Bergen lowered the net—invisible, imaginary—to the height of the bedrail. Every time Mia managed to tap the ball, Bergen set it back with a perfect, feather-light touch. They laughed when the ball rolled off the blanket. They cheered when Mia got two touches in a row. Nurses peeked in, wiping their eyes. Mia’s mother filmed it all on her phone, hands shaking.

For nearly an hour, the hospital room became a court. There were no crowds, no cameras (except Sarah’s), no scoreboard. Just a dying girl and the woman she idolized, playing the game that had given them both purpose.

When Mia grew tired, Bergen tucked the ball under her arm and leaned close.

“I brought you something,” she said.

She pulled out the signed Nebraska jersey she had worn during the 2025 national championship run—the one with the small tear on the sleeve from diving for a dig in the fifth set.

“I want you to have this,” Bergen whispered. “It’s yours now. Every time you wear it, know that I’m playing for you.”

Mia clutched the jersey to her chest like it was oxygen. Then she looked up at Bergen with eyes full of light that hadn’t been there in weeks.

“Will you… set for me one more time?” she asked.

Bergen nodded. She took the ball, stood at the foot of the bed, and gave Mia the softest, most perfect set of her life.

Mia reached. Her fingers brushed the ball. It floated upward in slow motion.

And then Mia smiled—the biggest, brightest smile anyone in that room had ever seen.

She never touched the ball again.

Mia Thompson passed away peacefully three days later, surrounded by her mother, her little brother, and the jersey that still smelled faintly of sweat and victory.

But before she left, she asked her mom to do one last thing.

She wanted the video—the one of Bergen playing mini-volleyball beside her bed—shared with the world.

Sarah posted it the next morning.

Within 24 hours, it had been viewed 47 million times.

The comments section became a sea of tears:

“Thank you, Bergen, for giving my daughter hope when we had none.” “I’m a cancer survivor. This made me cry harder than anything in years.” “Huskers forever. But more importantly—humans forever.”

The Nebraska athletic department created a scholarship in Mia’s name: the Mia Thompson Courage Award, given annually to a student-athlete who demonstrates resilience in the face of adversity.

Bergen Reilly was the first recipient.

She accepted it wearing Mia’s jersey.

And when she stepped to the microphone, her voice broke only once.

“She didn’t just watch me play,” Bergen said. “She played with me. And for those few minutes, we were both champions.”

The crowd inside Pinnacle Bank Arena gave her a standing ovation that lasted four full minutes.

Outside the arena, hundreds of fans gathered, holding signs that read:

“Mia’s Wish Came True.” “Play for Mia.” “Love Wins.”

In the end, Bergen Reilly didn’t just win matches. She won hearts. She reminded the world that sometimes the most important assist isn’t the one that scores a point— It’s the one that gives someone hope when time is running out.

And somewhere, in a place beyond pain and beyond loss, a 13-year-old girl is still smiling, still reaching for the ball, still hearing the gentle set of the greatest setter she ever knew.

Rest in peace, Mia Thompson. You are forever a Husker.