"My grandma said people talk even when they don't use words."
Ethan had no response, maybe because part of him feared she was right.
Maya rolled the basin closer. "Can I?"
Ethan looked down at his motionless legs. Three years. Three years since anyone touched them outside a hospital. Physical therapists had; doctors had; specialists had. But that felt different: clinical, mechanical. This felt personal, human.
For reasons he couldn't explain, he nodded.
Maya carefully removed his shoes, then his socks. She did it gently, respectfully, without pity. That mattered more than Ethan expected. People usually pitied him; he hated that. Maya never did.
She lowered his feet into the warm water. The heat spread across skin that had felt disconnected from the world for years. Ethan closed his eyes. The sensation wasn't dramatic, it wasn't miraculous, but it felt pleasant. And pleasant had become rare.
Maya began washing his feet slowly. Not like a nurse, not like a therapist—like someone caring for another human being. No rush, no performance, no expectation. The water rippled softly. Birds sang somewhere beyond the garden; the fountain murmured nearby.
For several minutes, neither spoke. The quiet felt peaceful. Then Maya finally asked, "Do you miss her?"
Ethan opened his eyes. The question struck instantly, painfully. He already knew who she meant: his wife, Claire—the woman who once loved him, the woman who couldn't stay, the woman he still thought about every day.
"Yes." The answer came before he could stop it.
Maya nodded. "My grandma said missing someone is proof they mattered."
Ethan swallowed; the lump in his throat surprised him. "Your grandma was very wise."
"She'd like you."
That almost made him laugh. "She never met me."
"She knew enough."
Ethan looked away. The conversation settled into silence again.
A few moments later, Maya gently pressed her thumb against the sole of his foot, then another spot, then another. Each movement seemed deliberate, almost practiced.
"Does this hurt?"
"No."
"This?"
"No."
She moved higher, pressed again. Ethan frowned. For the briefest moment, something—tiny, almost impossible, a faint spark, like static electricity—was gone instantly. But there.
Ethan's eyes widened. Maya froze. "What?"
He looked down, his heart beating faster. "Do that again."