"I am."
Maya set down the bucket. "I told you I would."
Something about her certainty made Ethan shake his head. Most adults broke promises. Most business partners broke promises. Most friends disappeared when life became difficult. Yet this child treated her word like something sacred.
She sat down on the edge of the patio. For several moments, neither spoke. Birds chirped in distant trees; the fountain bubbled quietly nearby.
Finally, Ethan broke the silence. "What exactly did your grandmother tell you about me?"
Maya looked thoughtful. "Not much."
"Then why did she keep my picture?"
"Because she said one day you'd need help."
Ethan laughed softly. "Looks like she was right." The words came out more bitter than he intended.
Maya noticed; she always seemed to notice. "You're sad."
Ethan looked away. "No."
"Yes, you are."
The blunt honesty caught him off guard. Children usually feared him; employees certainly did; board members chose every word carefully around him. Nobody simply looked him in the eye and said what they thought. Nobody except Maya.
"I'm fine," he replied.
"No, you're not."
The certainty in her voice irritated him. "You're very confident for a nine-year-old."
"My grandma said people usually get angry when someone tells the truth."
That almost made Ethan smile. Almost.
Before the accident, people called him confident, visionary, relentless. Now, most days, he simply felt tired—very tired, the kind of exhaustion sleep couldn't fix.
Maya opened the bucket. Inside were several folded cloths, a small bottle, a few dried leaves, the old photograph, and Grandma Ruth's notebook.
Ethan's eyes lingered on the notebook. "You carry that everywhere?"
"Every day."
"What if you lose it?"
Maya immediately hugged it closer. "I won't."
There was something protective in her voice, something emotional. Ethan recognized it, because he used to feel the same way about certain things before life changed, before everything fell apart.