Chapter 13

She looked at him and said quietly, "She is the second kind."He didn't answer, but he knew she was right."Let's try again," she said, standing up. "This time, walk to me."She moved a few steps away from him on the stone path. "Walk to me," she repeated.He stood up slowly, balanced himself, then took one step, then another. His legs were shaking, but they were holding him. He focused on her, on the small distance between them: three steps, four steps. On the fifth step, his leg almost gave out, and he reached forward quickly. She stepped closer, and he caught her shoulder lightly to steady himself."I'm sorry," he said, breathing hard. "I almost fell.""But you didn't," she said. "You walked."He looked back at the wheelchair. It was only a few steps away, but it felt like it was in a different world."I had a dream last night," he said suddenly."What dream?" she asked."I dreamed I was running again," he said. "Not fast. Just running. And in the dream, I wasn't even happy. I was just... normal. And when I woke up and saw the chair, I realized something.""What?" she asked."The worst part about losing my legs was not the pain," he said. "It was that everyone started making decisions for me: where I go, what I eat, what I sign, what I take, what I believe about my own body." He looked at his legs again. "If I don't stand up soon," he said quietly, "I won't just lose my company. I will lose the right to decide anything about my own life."The girl looked at him very seriously. "Then you don't just stand up for walking," she said. "You stand up for your life."He nodded slowly. "For my life," he repeated.Inside the house, through the tall glass windows, he could see her moving around the kitchen, talking on the phone, probably planning the wedding: the flowers, the seating, the music. A perfect wedding, a perfect plan.He looked away from the house and took another slow step forward on the stone path, then another, and another. Each step was small, but each step was a decision. And for the first time in a long time, the decisions were his again.Three days before the final wedding guest list was due, the financial investigator came to the house through the back entrance, just like the private doctor had. He sat in the study again, the curtains half-closed, the wheelchair turned toward the desk, a legal pad in front of him. On the desk were copies of bank statements, investment reports, and company share transfers from the last six months.The investigator, a quiet man with gray hair and thin glasses, opened his laptop and spoke in a calm, professional voice. "I'll explain this simply," he said, "because what's happening here is actually very organized."

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