Ethan hesitated. Every instinct screamed no. And yet—he saw something in her stillness, a gravity that didn’t belong to a child begging. He looked at his son. Noah’s gaze held a question that hurt more than any refusal.
“All right,” Ethan said quietly. “One minute.”
The girl knelt and removed Noah’s shoes with care, as if performing a ritual. She uncorked the vial and poured the liquid over Noah’s calves. It slid down his skin, cool and scentless, soaking into the blanket, dripping onto the dust.
Nothing happened.
Ethan exhaled, relief and shame tangling. “That’s enough.”
Then Noah gasped.
“Dad,” he whispered. “It’s warm.”
Ethan knelt, heart pounding. Noah’s toes twitched. Once. Then again. The boy’s hands clenched the armrests.
“Stand,” the girl said softly.
Ethan shook his head. “No—”
But Noah was already pushing himself up. His knees wobbled. Ethan reached out, ready to catch him—
—and Noah stood.
For a heartbeat, the park held its breath. Then Noah took a step. And another. He laughed, a sound so bright it felt like a door flung open inside Ethan’s chest. Tears blurred his vision as he dropped to his knees, hands shaking.
When he looked up, the girl was backing away.