December snow keeps tapping the mansion windows like it wants in.
Outside, the world is softened into a blurry postcard, white and quiet and far away from you.
Inside, nothing is softened. The cold lives in the marble, in the ceilings too high, in the empty chairs that never get pulled out anymore.
You sit at a mahogany table built for twenty people and eat alone, because loneliness doesn’t care how expensive your forks are.

Your name is Robert “Bob” Harrison, fifty-two years old, and the city still whispers your last name like it’s a password.
You have properties, investments, a fortune with more zeros than you can count without getting bored.
You also have a wheelchair that hums softly whenever it moves, a polite mechanical sound that reminds you you’re not walking.
Twenty years ago, a car accident stole your legs and then stole everything else one piece at a time.

At first, people came around in waves.
Friends showed up with “inspirational” speeches and stiff hugs that smelled like pity.
Your wife tried, for a while, until your grief turned into bitterness and your bitterness became the only thing you served at home.
Then one day she left, not with a scream, but with silence, and silence became your longest relationship.

Now the mansion feels like a museum where every room exhibits something you once were.
You roll past oil paintings that don’t recognize you.
You pass a grand staircase like it’s a joke told by an architect.
You hear your own voice rarely, and when you do, it sounds blunt and tired, like it’s been sleeping too long.
You tell yourself you’re fine because saying “I’m not” would crack the dam.

Tonight, the filet on your plate is perfect.
It still tastes like nothing because food isn’t food when it’s swallowed with the seasoning of regret.
You push the plate away, nearly untouched, and the only sound in the vast dining room is silver tapping porcelain.
You start toward your study because you’d rather stare at documents than admit you miss human voices.

Then you hear it.

A knock at the service door.
Soft, hesitant, like whoever is out there isn’t sure they deserve to be heard.
Nobody visits you, and the people you pay to be here are asleep at this hour, so the sound doesn’t fit your world.
Curiosity, the instinct you thought died in the crash, drags you down the hallway.

You open the heavy side door and the winter hits your face like a slap.
Snow dusts the threshold, and the wind squeezes through the gap like it’s looking for warmth to steal.
You look down, and then lower, and then you freeze for a different reason.
A child stands there shivering, six years old at most, wearing a jacket too thin to be called a jacket in Massachusetts.

Her hair is tangled, damp with snow.
Her shoes have holes, and you can see the cold biting at her toes like a hungry dog.
But her eyes, startlingly bright blue in the dark, hold steady on you with the kind of bravery adults pretend they still have.
She doesn’t look at your mansion the way a thief looks at a vault, she looks at it the way a starving person looks at a kitchen light.

“Sir,” she whispers, voice cracked from the cold, “I’m really hungry.”
She swallows, trying to be polite, trying to sound older than she is.
“Do you have food you’re not going to eat?”
You can’t remember the last time anyone asked you for leftovers without wanting something else first.

“What are you doing out here alone?” you ask, and your voice comes out rough because you don’t use it for kindness anymore.
She points across the street at a tired building with peeling paint and windows that always look dim.
“I live over there with my mom,” she says. “She works late. The neighbor says rich people throw away good food.”
No accusation, no resentment, just the brutal logic of a child who has seen trash cans used like grocery bags.

You should close the door.
You should call someone, tell them to handle it, keep your life clean and quiet and controlled.
Instead, you stare at her and feel an unexpected stab in your chest that has nothing to do with your old injuries.
It feels like shame, the kind that sneaks up when you realize your “extras” could be someone else’s survival.

“What’s your name?” you ask, because you suddenly need to know she’s real.
“Lily,” she answers, and she lifts her chin like she’s offering a business proposal.
Then she says, “We can make a trade.”
The word trade makes you almost laugh again, because what could she possibly have?

“A trade?” you repeat.
She nods quickly, teeth chattering.
“Your leftovers for a cure,” she says, like she’s reading a menu.
You blink. “A cure for what?”
She looks at your wheelchair like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“For your legs,” she says softly. “I can make you walk again.”

Something hot rises in you, old anger with new fuel.
You’ve paid Swiss specialists, American surgeons, private rehab teams who wore hope like a uniform.
You’ve endured “breakthrough treatments” that broke nothing but your wallet and your patience.
And now a tiny girl in ripped shoes is promising what medicine couldn’t.

You let out a dry laugh that sounds like gravel.
“That’s a cute story,” you say, and you hate yourself for the cruelty even as it leaves your mouth.
Lily doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look insulted. She looks… determined.
“I already did it before,” she says, mysterious as a fortune cookie, and then adds, “But you have to do your part too.”

“What part?” you ask, because against your will, you’re listening.

“You have to feed me,” she says, simple. “And you have to stop being so sad on purpose.”

For a second, you don’t know whether to be offended or stunned.
Nobody talks to you like that. Not staff. Not doctors. Not your own mother.
But Lily says it the way a kid says the truth, without decorating it for comfort.
You feel your throat tighten, and you look away so she won’t see your face.

“Come in,” you mutter, as if you’re doing her a favor.
You heat up what you didn’t eat, fill a container with steak and potatoes and bread, add fruit because you can’t help yourself.
She eats at your kitchen counter like she’s afraid the food will disappear if she blinks too long.
You pretend you’re not watching, but you are, because something about her hunger makes your emptiness look stupid.

When she finishes, she wipes her mouth with her sleeve and grins like she just won a negotiation.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she says, like she’s scheduling an appointment.
Then she points at you. “Don’t forget. You promised.”
You start to say you promised nothing, but the words stick, because you did open the door, and that feels like a promise to a child.

After she leaves, the mansion is quiet again.
But it’s a different quiet, less dead, like the air is waiting for something.
You go to bed and realize you didn’t picture the crash for the first time in a long time.
Instead, you picture Lily’s eyes, bright as tiny stars, and you hate that it comforts you.

The next day, she returns with a flower so wilted it looks like it survived a war.
“I found it,” she says proudly. “My mom says you have to return favors.”
You want to tell her you don’t need repayment, but your world has been transactional for so long you don’t know how to accept pure kindness without suspicion.
She places the flower on your table like it’s priceless.

Then she climbs onto a chair, reaches toward you, and puts her small hands on your knees.
You flinch, not from pain, but from the intimacy of being touched without permission forms and latex gloves.
“Your legs are asleep,” she declares, very serious.
She taps your knee gently, like she’s knocking on a door inside your body.
“Your heart is too sad, so it forgot to send love down there.”

You almost protest, but her face is too earnest to mock.
“And you’re a doctor now?” you ask, trying to sound amused instead of moved.
She nods solemnly. “A heart doctor,” she says. “The kind that doesn’t need needles.”
Then she closes her eyes, takes a breath, and whispers words you can’t fully hear, like she’s talking to the ceiling, or maybe to something bigger than the ceiling.

A week passes like that, Lily showing up whenever her mother works late.
You learn she counts your smiles the way some kids count stickers.
If you don’t smile, she looks personally offended, like you’re skipping a required dose.
She makes you name three things you’re grateful for each day, and you hate it at first because gratitude feels like surrender.
Then you realize surrender isn’t always losing, sometimes it’s setting something heavy down.

On the eighth day, Lily’s mother finds out.

You hear frantic knocking, adult knocking, the kind that comes with fear and apology.
A woman stands on your step, cheeks red from wind and panic, hair pulled back in a messy bun that screams exhaustion.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurts. “I couldn’t find her. I didn’t mean for her to bother you.”
Her eyes scan you like she’s searching for danger, because in her life, danger is a common language.

Lily pops up behind your shoulder like a guilty angel.
“It’s okay, Mama,” she says quickly. “He’s not mean. He’s just… grumpy rich.”
The woman’s face goes pale. “Lily!”
You surprise yourself by laughing, a real laugh that scrapes rust off your chest.

“I’m Bob,” you tell the woman, and your name sounds less like armor when you say it this way.
“Maggie,” she replies, voice tight, still not trusting the situation.
She looks at your wheelchair, the mansion, the warmth, and you can see her mind calculating risks because mothers like her don’t get to be naive.
But she also sees Lily’s comfort around you, and that confuses her more than anything.

You expect Maggie to forbid Lily from returning.
Instead, she sits stiffly in your kitchen, accepts coffee like it might explode, and listens as Lily explains her “treatment plan” like she’s pitching a hospital.
Maggie’s expression shifts from fear to disbelief to something softer, something like pity for you and admiration for Lily wrapped together.
When Maggie stands to leave, she hesitates, and you can tell she’s not sure whether to thank you or protect Lily from you.

“You can come by,” you hear yourself say, before you overthink it.
“Maggie, I mean. With her. If you want.”
Maggie’s eyes widen slightly, as if nobody with money has ever invited her anywhere without an agenda.
She nods once. “We’ll see,” she says, careful, but there’s gratitude hiding in the edges.

Two days later, Maggie shows up with a bruised look on her spirit.
She doesn’t say much at first, just sits on the couch while Lily chatters.
Then she finally whispers, “The landlord’s kicking us out.”
Her voice is quiet like she’s ashamed to say it, like poverty is a confession.

You ask why, even though you can guess.

“He’s raising rent again,” Maggie says. “He says he can get someone else in there for more.”
She swallows hard. “I work three jobs. It’s still not enough.”
You feel rage flare up, not your old rage at fate, but a new kind aimed at a system that crushes people and calls it business.
And you realize you’ve been insulated from this kind of cruelty because your money acts like weatherproofing.

You look around your mansion, the extra bedrooms, the extra everything, the emptiness taking up space like a spoiled ghost.
Your mouth moves before your fear can stop it.
“Stay here,” you say. “There’s a guest wing. It’s warm. It’s safe.”
Maggie stares at you like you just offered her the moon, and Lily squeals like she just won a lifetime supply of birthdays.

Maggie tries to refuse because pride is sometimes the only thing the poor truly own.
You insist, because for once you want your money to do something other than sit like a smug number.
That night, when you hear Lily’s laughter echo down a hallway that used to be silent, your mansion feels less like a tomb.
And the terrifying part is you realize you like it.

Weeks turn into something like a routine.

Lily makes pancakes with a seriousness that makes you suspect she was a chef in a past life.
Maggie cleans and cooks and still tries to keep her jobs, refusing to become dependent, refusing to owe you anything she can’t repay.
You watch them move through your rooms like they belong, and a part of you wants to push them away because happiness feels like a scam.
Another part of you wants to lock the doors and keep them safe from a world that never gave them a break.

Then it happens.

You’re in your study, staring at legal paperwork you don’t care about, when you feel a tiny sensation near your right ankle.
It’s so small it could be imagination, like the ghost of a nerve clearing its throat.
You freeze. Your breath stops halfway.
You focus, sweating, terrified to hope because hope hurts.

You try to move your big toe.

Nothing.

Then Lily’s voice floats in from the hallway, singing off-key, and Maggie laughs quietly, and something inside you loosens.
You try again, not with anger, not with force, but with the weird warmth you’ve been pretending you don’t feel.
Your toe twitches, barely a millimeter, but it happens.
Your whole body goes cold-hot, like lightning just crawled through your blood.

You don’t tell anyone immediately because you don’t want to ruin it by saying it out loud.
You wait until the next day, then the next, testing again, and the tiny twitch returns like a secret handshake.
Finally, you call your neurologist, Dr. Winters, the most skeptical woman you’ve ever met.
She’s seen every false dawn you’ve paid for, and she has no patience for miracles.
That’s exactly why you need her.

Dr. Winters arrives and examines you with her professional mask on.
She pokes and taps and tests reflexes, her brow furrowing deeper each minute.
“This is… unusual,” she says, as if the word tastes wrong in her mouth.
Maggie watches from the doorway, hands clasped tight, while Lily sits cross-legged on the floor like she’s attending a show.
“You’re not tricking her, right?” Lily whispers to you loudly, and you nearly choke.

Dr. Winters orders imaging, nerve tests, full evaluation.
You comply, because if this is real, you need proof.
And if it isn’t real, you need the truth to stop the ache of possibility.
The first results come back with a cautious line in the report: “unexpected activity.”
Dr. Winters doesn’t smile, but her eyes look shaken.

That should be the moment you feel safe.

Instead, it’s the moment the wolves smell blood.

Rumors spread the way they always do, through bored mouths and hungry headlines.
Someone sees Dr. Winters’ car at your estate. Someone sees Lily laughing on your porch.
The story leaks: “Billionaire shows sudden improvement after moving in a struggling mother and child.”
And the world, as always, chooses the ugliest interpretation first.

Then the envelope arrives.

Thick legal paper, aggressive letterhead, words that drip with polished cruelty.
Your ex-wife, the one who vanished fifteen years ago and never checked on you once, has “concerns.”
She claims you’re being manipulated, that you’re not mentally stable, that Maggie is a con artist using a child to gain access to your fortune.
She petitions the court to declare you incompetent and place your assets under control.

The cold that used to live in your mansion returns, but now it lives in your bones.
Maggie reads the document and goes pale, then red, then hollow.
She starts packing that night, folding Lily’s clothes like she’s trying to fold herself smaller.
“If we leave,” she whispers, “they’ll stop attacking you. You can heal without us being your weakness.”

Your chest tightens because you realize she’s willing to disappear to protect you.
And the truth slices deeper: you’ve spent years thinking you didn’t deserve love, and now someone is proving you do by sacrificing herself.
You roll into the guest room and slam your hand against the doorframe hard enough to sting.
“No,” you say, voice sharp, surprising even you.
“If you leave, they win, and I stay the same man I hate.”

Maggie’s eyes fill, but she doesn’t cry.
She looks at you like she’s deciding whether to trust you with her child’s life.
“You can’t fight them,” she whispers. “They’ll ruin you.”
You lean forward in your chair, anger burning clean this time.
“I’ve been ruined for twenty years,” you tell her. “This is the first time I’ve felt alive. I’m not giving that back.”

You set a plan in motion.

Not a billionaire plan, not a PR plan, but a truth plan.
You call Dr. Winters and ask her to conduct tests in front of legal counsel.
You invite the opposing lawyers to witness a full evaluation, because you want the lies to suffocate under facts.
You also request a mental competency exam, because you’re done letting anyone else narrate your mind.
And when your attorney asks if you’re sure, you say, “Yes. I want them to see the truth while it’s standing right in front of them.”

The day of the evaluation feels like an invasion.

Two attorneys arrive with sleek briefcases and predator smiles.
They walk through your mansion like they already own it, scanning Maggie like she’s evidence.
One of them crouches near Lily and says in a sugary voice, “Hi sweetheart, do you know why you’re here?”
Lily stares back and says, “Because grown-ups lie when they’re scared,” and the lawyer straightens up like he got slapped.

Dr. Winters sets up the electromyography equipment in a room that used to host formal parties.
Wires, sensors, screens, sterile precision in the middle of your old luxury.
She looks at you, expression flat, but her hands are steady.
“You understand this is extremely unlikely,” she says.
“Just do it,” you answer, because your voice has learned how to be strong again.

Maggie stands in the corner with Lily, knuckles tight, lips moving silently as if she’s praying.
Lily closes her eyes and whispers, “Send him the light, Mama. Send him the light.”
The lawyers watch with bored skepticism, like they’re waiting for a circus trick to fail.
One of them says, “Go ahead, Mr. Harrison. Move your leg.”

You close your eyes.

You don’t think about nerves or anatomy or statistics.
You think about Lily’s tiny flower left on your table like it mattered.
You think about Maggie making coffee in your kitchen as if she belongs there.
You think about the sound of laughter in hallways that used to echo with your own bitterness.

You try to move your right foot.

At first, nothing happens, and your heart drops like a stone.
Then the EMG machine beeps, a sharp sound that slices the room open.
The flat line on the screen jumps, spikes like a heartbeat that just remembered its job.
Your right leg jerks, visible, undeniable, and Dr. Winters’ clipboard slips from her hands and hits the floor.

Her eyes widen.

“No,” one of the lawyers blurts, stepping closer like proximity will change reality.
Dr. Winters leans toward the screen, checks the leads, checks the signal, checks again.
“This is real,” she says, and her voice sounds like she’s trying not to panic.
“There’s activity. There’s connection.”

The room goes silent in a way that feels sacred.

The opposing attorneys stare like they’ve just watched a statue move.
Maggie covers her mouth, tears spilling despite her effort.
Lily throws both arms in the air, triumphant.
“See?” she says loudly. “His heart is working again, so his legs are listening.”

One lawyer stammers something about “placebo,” but the machine doesn’t care about arguments.
Dr. Winters, the skeptic queen, looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time.
“I don’t have a clean explanation,” she admits, and it’s the most honest she’s ever sounded.
“But I can confirm you are not faking this.”
Your attorney smiles slowly like a lock just clicked open.

The lawsuit starts collapsing after that, but it doesn’t vanish politely.

Your ex-wife pivots to public pressure.
She leaks the story to tabloids, paints you as a victim, paints Maggie as a parasite, paints Lily as a prop.
Cameras park outside your gate.
Headlines explode: “MIRACLE OR MANIPULATION?” “POOR MOM MOVES IN WITH BILLIONAIRE!” “CHILD HEALER SCANDAL!”

Maggie takes Lily’s hand and tries to keep her head high.
Lily asks why people hate them when they didn’t do anything wrong.
You almost break, because protecting a child from the ugliness of adults is harder than any therapy.
So you decide to do the one thing rich people rarely do when accused.

You show up.

In court.

You roll in through the doors with Maggie beside you and Lily holding your hand like she’s your tiny bodyguard.
Your ex-wife sits across the room, perfectly dressed, eyes cold, as if she’s auditioning for sympathy.
Her attorney argues you’re mentally compromised, “emotionally dependent,” unable to make rational decisions.
They call Maggie a manipulator without using the word, because they know the implication is poison enough.

Then Dr. Winters takes the stand.

She testifies under oath that your cognitive tests show full competence.
She testifies that neurological activity has returned in ways she cannot fully explain but can medically document.
She says, “There is no evidence he is being drugged, coerced, or delusional.”
Your ex-wife’s smile cracks for half a second, and you feel the room shift.

The judge turns to you.

“Mr. Harrison,” he says, “do you wish to speak?”
You look at Maggie, then Lily, then at the woman who left you and returned only when she smelled money.
You grip the armrests of your chair, take a breath, and decide to stop being quiet.
“I am not incompetent,” you say. “I am a man who was lonely and then remembered what love feels like.”

The courtroom murmurs, hungry.

You keep going anyway.
“I didn’t become weaker when they entered my home,” you say, voice steady. “I became human again.”
You glance at Lily. “This child asked for leftovers, not my fortune.”
Then you look directly at the judge. “If that’s manipulation, then we’ve lost the meaning of the word.”

Your ex-wife’s attorney rolls his eyes and says, “Mr. Harrison, can you prove these ‘improvements’ are real?”
You swallow, because you know what everyone expects.
They expect you to stay in your chair and let experts speak for you.
They expect you to be the passive exhibit.

You don’t.

You plant your hands on the armrests and push.

Pain flares in your shoulders, your arms trembling under the strain, but you don’t stop.
Your legs feel distant, like they’re on a different planet, yet you focus anyway, calling them back like you’re calling a dog that ran too far.
Someone gasps. A bailiff shifts.
Then your body lifts, shaky and imperfect, and the courtroom stops breathing.

You stand.

It’s not graceful, not dramatic in the movie way.
Your knees wobble like they’re negotiating with gravity.
But you’re upright, and that’s enough to rewrite the entire room’s reality.
Your ex-wife’s face drains of color as if someone unplugged her confidence.

You take one step.

The sound of your foot hitting the floor is small, but the meaning of it is thunder.
Lily whispers, “Yes,” like a coach who never doubted you.
You take another step, and then another, and your eyes burn with tears you don’t bother hiding.
Dr. Winters sits frozen, lips parted, as if her whole career just got punched by wonder.

The judge slams the gavel.

“Petition denied,” he declares, voice firm. “Mr. Harrison is competent. This case is dismissed.”
The courtroom erupts, not in polite applause, but in shocked noise, people rising instinctively like they just watched impossible become normal.
Your ex-wife sits stiff, trapped in the wreckage of her plan.
And you, still trembling, reach for Maggie’s hand because the victory isn’t legal, it’s personal.

After court, the fight becomes physical.

Therapy is brutal, the kind that turns pride into sweat.
You fall. You curse. You want to quit on days your legs feel like dead wood again.
But Lily becomes your tiny drill sergeant, counting your steps like they’re treasure.
Maggie becomes your anchor, steady, patient, never letting you turn your struggle into anger again.

Months pass.

You graduate from parallel bars to a walker.
From a walker to a cane.
From a cane to short, unsteady steps across your own living room, the room that used to feel like a cage.
Dr. Winters documents everything with a scientist’s disbelief and a human’s quiet awe.
She never calls it magic, but her voice softens when she says, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Your mansion transforms without you noticing when it happened.

The kitchen smells like pancakes and cinnamon instead of loneliness.
The halls echo with Lily’s running feet and Maggie’s singing while she cleans, not because you demand it, but because happiness leaks out of her naturally.
You stop eating alone at the long table and start eating at the smaller breakfast nook like a normal person, and somehow that feels like the greatest luxury of all.
You start smiling without needing Lily to order you to.

Then Lily’s birthday approaches.

She talks about it for weeks like it’s a holiday for the entire planet.
Maggie tries to keep it simple, because life taught her not to expect too much.
You quietly plan something bigger, not flashy, but meaningful, because you owe that child more than money can translate.
You promised her something once, and for the first time, you want to keep a promise more than you want to protect your pride.

On May 15th, the garden explodes with spring.

Flowers bloom like they’re trying to erase winter’s memory.
A small party gathers, not rich strangers, but real people: your attorney, Dr. Winters, a couple of Maggie’s friends from work, and even your mother, who shows up with trembling hands and regret in her eyes.
Lily blows out candles and someone asks, “What’s your wish?”
Lily just smiles and says, “It’s coming.”

Everyone turns when they hear the soft scrape behind them.

You’re at the patio door, standing.
No wheelchair. No chair humming. No mechanical sound.
Your legs shake, your hands grip the railing, but you are upright, and you’re smiling like a man meeting himself for the first time.
For a moment, nobody speaks, because joy is sometimes too big for words.

“Hello, Dr. Lily,” you say, voice breaking.
“I’m here for my checkup.”
Lily’s eyes fill, then she laughs, then she runs toward you like you’re the best present in the world.
You let go of the railing.

You take three steps toward her.

They’re uneven, they’re slow, they’re the hardest three steps you’ve ever taken.
But you make it, and when you drop to one knee in front of her, it isn’t weakness, it’s reverence.
You take her small hands in yours and feel the weight of what she did without even realizing she was doing it.
“You asked for leftovers,” you whisper. “And you gave me my life.”

Lily hugs you so fiercely you almost tip over.
“I didn’t do it,” she murmurs into your shoulder. “I just lent you my faith until you found yours.”
Your throat closes, because the sentence is too wise for six years old, yet it fits perfectly.
You look up at Maggie, who is crying openly now, and you feel something in your chest settle into place like a missing piece.

“Maggie,” you say softly.

She wipes her face quickly, embarrassed by her tears, but she doesn’t look away.
You stand carefully, then take her hand, and your voice shakes for a different reason than muscle strain.
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching love from a chair,” you tell her.
“I want to walk beside you, even if it’s slow. Even if it hurts. Even if it takes me forever.”

Maggie’s lips part, stunned.

You take a breath, steadying yourself, and then you ask the question that scares you more than any court case.
“Will you marry me?”
The garden goes silent, not because people are judging, but because everyone is holding their hearts carefully.
Then Maggie nods, and the yes comes out as a sob and a laugh all at once.

Lily squeals like a siren and throws her arms around both of you.
Your mother covers her mouth, tears spilling as if she’s finally grieving the twenty years she wasted at a distance.
Dr. Winters shakes her head slowly, half-smiling, like she’s watching science meet something it can’t measure.
And you, trembling on your own two feet, realize the biggest cure wasn’t your legs.

It was your willingness to let people in.

In the years that follow, the world calls it the “Harrison Miracle.”
Doctors publish papers full of careful language: “spontaneous neurological recovery,” “unknown factors,” “psychosocial influence.”
News shows replay the courtroom footage like it’s a movie, freezing on the moment you rose from the chair.
People argue online, because they always do, about whether faith can move nerves or love can move bodies.
You stop reading the comments.

Because you know what happened in the only way that matters.

A hungry little girl knocked on your door and asked for what you were about to throw away.
And when you opened that door, you didn’t just feed her.
You fed the part of yourself that had been starving for years.
Everything after that, the tests, the court, the steps, the wedding, was just the world catching up to what your heart already knew.

Sometimes a cure doesn’t arrive in a lab.
Sometimes it arrives in torn shoes, bright eyes, and a fearless little voice saying, “Make a trade with me.”
And the scariest part is realizing it was never your legs that were truly paralyzed.
It was your hope.

THE END