The morning light fell softly across the hospital courtyard, painting the tiles in warm gold. I wheeled Dennis toward the therapy room, my hand steady on the chair's handle. He sat in silence, his expression unreadable, but I could sense the war raging inside him.
Today mattered. After yesterday's storm, we both needed something— anything— that could show us this journey wasn't all shadows.
The physiotherapist, Dr. Nelson, greeted us with her calm smile. "Good morning, Dennis. Ready to work?"
His lips pressed into a thin line. "Ready to fail again, you mean."
I leaned down, whispering in his ear. "Or ready to surprise yourself."
He gave me a side glance, skeptical, but I caught the faintest flicker of softness in his eyes.
The parallel bars mocked me again, stretching ahead like a cruel finish line I'd never reach.
"Let's try," Nelson said gently.
I gripped the rails with my good hand, the weak one strapped loosely for support. My legs trembled before I even moved. Fear gnawed at me— fear of falling, of looking pathetic, of seeing Ann's eyes fill with pity.
"Come on," Jacob's voice rang from the corner, annoyingly cheerful. "Bet you can beat yesterday's record."
"Shut up," I muttered, sweat already forming on my brow.
Ann stood just behind me, her voice steady. "One step, Dennis. Just one. Don't think about more."
I clenched my jaw, shifted my weight, and dragged my foot forward. My entire body felt like it was being ripped apart, but the foot landed— messy, crooked, but it landed.
"One," Nelson counted softly.
I gasped, my chest burning. My arm shook violently, but I forced the other leg forward.
"Two."
Ann's breath caught behind me.
My knees buckled, my balance slipped. I almost collapsed, but Nelson steadied me.
"Again?" she asked.
Every nerve in my body screamed, but something inside me— something stubborn, maybe something born from Ann's unwavering eyes— pushed me forward.
"Three," I wheezed.
I collapsed back into the wheelchair, drenched in sweat, my body on fire.
I knelt in front of him, holding his trembling hand.
"Dennis," I whispered, barely able to keep my tears back, "you walked three steps. Yesterday you couldn't even believe in one. Don't you see? That's progress!"
He shook his head weakly. "It was sloppy… pathetic…"
"No." I tightened my grip. "It was brave."
For a moment, the silence hung heavy. Then, slowly, his eyes softened, and his lips curved into the smallest, most fragile smile I'd seen in weeks.
Later, back at home, I stared at the notebook I'd abandoned days ago— the one where I had written my list of things to try again.
I added a new line.
Three steps.
It looked ridiculous on paper, like a child's milestone. But to me, it was a crack in the wall that had trapped me for months.
Jacob barged in, stealing a banana from the table. "So, cousin," he grinned, "you walked, huh? Next thing we know, you'll be chasing Ann around the garden."
"Idiot," I muttered, but I couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped.
Ann looked up from her notes, smiling. That smile— God, it was more healing than any therapy session.
That evening, we sat together in the living room. He was quiet, thoughtful, staring at the faint scars on his hand.
"Ann," he said suddenly, his voice low, "do you really believe I'll walk again?"
I met his gaze, unwavering. "Yes."
He studied me, searching for cracks in my certainty. "Even if it takes months… or years?"
"Even if it takes forever," I said.
He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders softening just a little. "Then maybe… maybe I can believe it too."
I leaned my head against his arm, my heart swelling with fierce, unshakable love.
For the first time in weeks, hope didn't feel like a lie.
It felt like the beginning of a step forward.