"They are."
"No, they're not."
"They are."
The old, familiar argument made both of them smile. The therapists often paused to watch—not because of Maya's techniques, but because of her effect. Nobody had seen Ethan like this before. More importantly, neither had Ethan.
Weeks passed. The media storm surrounding the insurance company continued to grow: investigations expanded, former employees came forward, whistleblowers appeared, questions multiplied.
Meanwhile, Ethan focused on something far more important: learning to stand again.
The first attempt happened inside a private rehabilitation room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Dallas. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh coffee. Parallel bars stretched across the center. Maya stood nearby; Dr. Reeves watched carefully; two therapists positioned themselves on either side.
Ethan gripped the bars. His palms sweated, his heart pounded.
"You ready?" Dr. Reeves asked.
"No."
Everyone laughed, including Ethan.
Then he took a breath and pushed upward. Pain shot through his legs—not dangerous pain, but the pain of muscles trying to remember, the pain of effort, the pain of possibility. Slowly, very slowly, his body rose a few inches, then more.
Then, he was standing. Not independently, not steadily, but standing.
The room fell silent. For several seconds, nobody spoke. Ethan stared at the floor beneath him, his eyes widened. Three years—three years since he had seen the world from this height. The moment felt surreal, almost sacred.
Then Maya began clapping: immediately, loudly, proudly, like he had just won an Olympic medal. The therapists joined her; Dr. Reeves smiled; and Ethan laughed through tears he couldn't stop. For the first time since the accident, he stood.
That night, he sat alone in the mansion's garden—the same garden where Maya first appeared, the same garden where everything changed. The sunset painted the sky gold and orange; warm wind rustled the trees; somewhere nearby, a fountain quietly splashed. Ethan looked toward the fence, remembering: the bucket, the photograph, the impossible promise. He had almost called security that day. The thought still haunted him: how close he came to making the biggest mistake of his life.
A movement caught his attention: Maya climbing over the fence, again, just as she always did. Some things never changed, and Ethan was grateful for that.
She landed softly, smiled, then immediately noticed something: "You stood today."
Ethan blinked. "How did you know?"
"You look taller."
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. "You make no sense."
"My grandma said healing changes people's faces before it changes their bodies."
Ethan shook his head, but deep down he knew she was right. Healing had already begun long before his toe moved, long before he stood, long before the doctors admitted their mistakes: it started the day someone treated him like a person instead of a diagnosis.
The weeks that followed brought even more progress: a twitch became movement, movement became control, control became strength, strength became possibility. Every victory felt small until suddenly it wasn't. One afternoon, Ethan managed to shift weight onto both legs. The next week, he took a tiny assisted step, then another, then another. The world seemed brighter, food tasted better, conversations lasted longer.