The morning after Dennis broke down in my arms, the house felt different.
The air was heavy, but not with anger this time. It was quieter, almost fragile, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I busied myself in the kitchen, making tea, when I heard the faint scrape of his wheelchair against the floorboards.
"Ann," his voice came, rough but calmer than yesterday.
I turned. He was in the doorway, hair messy, eyes red-rimmed from the night before. But there was something else in his face— hesitation, maybe even shame.
"I'll eat," he said softly.
Just two words. But my chest swelled. He was trying.
I set a plate down before him. He picked up the spoon clumsily with his good hand, fumbling, spilling some porridge. Normally, he would've cursed, shoved it away. But today, he took a breath and tried again.
"See?" I smiled. "Already winning battles before the day starts."
He rolled his eyes, but there was no venom in it. "You exaggerate."
"No," I whispered, "I see sparks."
It wasn't a victory. It was a mess— porridge dripping down the spoon, my hand trembling like a faulty machine. But Ann's eyes lit up as though I'd scaled a mountain.
She always had that maddening way of finding triumph in scraps.
Later, during therapy, I surprised even myself.
"Let's try again," I told the physiotherapist.
He blinked, then nodded cautiously. "Alright, Dennis. We'll work on the parallel bars today."
The bars loomed in front of me, taunting. I hated them. They mocked me with every failed attempt. But something in Ann's face last night— her stubborn devotion— clung to me like an anchor.
My hands gripped the cold steel. My legs felt like lead. Sweat broke across my forehead before I even moved.
"One step," the therapist urged.
I dragged my foot forward. It scraped, clumsy, but it moved. Then another. My body screamed, my balance wobbled.
But then— Ann's voice.
"You're doing it, Dennis!"
I wanted to quit. I wanted to collapse. But her words lit something inside me. I pushed again.
And this time, I made it three steps before collapsing into the wheelchair.
I sat there, panting, muscles trembling, humiliation gnawing at me.
But then I looked up. Ann's hands were clasped to her chest, her eyes wet— not with pity, but pride.
"You walked," she whispered.
Not much. But enough.
For the first time in months, I believed her.
On the way home, he was quiet. Not the angry silence of before, but thoughtful. His hand rested on the armrest, twitching faintly as if the memory of those steps still lived in his muscles.
"You know," I said, glancing at him, "that was more than just walking."
He arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"That was proof. Proof that you can fight back. That it's not all hopeless."
He didn't answer, but I caught the tiniest curve at the corner of his lips.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My body hurt everywhere, but it was a different kind of pain— earned, not forced.
Ann lay beside me, her breathing steady. I stared at the ceiling, replaying those three shaky steps.
For months, I had seen only endings— of my freedom, of my dignity, of our future. But tonight, for the first time, I saw a beginning.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't clean. But it was a spark.
And sparks, if guarded, could become flames.
The next day, Jacob barged in, his usual grin plastered across his face.
"I heard you walked, cousin!" he boomed, clapping Dennis on the shoulder.
Dennis groaned. "It was three pathetic steps. Don't make it sound like a marathon."
Jacob leaned down, his eyes shining. "Pathetic? My foot. That's three more than yesterday. And tomorrow, maybe four. Keep it up, and I'll be begging you for a race."
For the first time in weeks, Dennis chuckled. It was short, strained, but real.
And just like that, the house didn't feel so heavy anymore.
Later, when Ann returned from her lectures, she found me at the table, scribbling clumsily in a notebook.
She tilted her head. "What's that?"
I looked up, embarrassed. "Just… a list."
"A list?"
"Of things I want to try again. Eating without spilling. Walking a little farther. Maybe…" I hesitated, then met her gaze. "Dancing with you someday."
Her eyes filled instantly. She leaned down and kissed my forehead.
"You will, Dennis. You will."
And for once, I didn't doubt her.
Because somewhere between despair and love, a spark had been born. And I wasn't going to let it die.