“Sir… Ethan isn’t in his room.”
Jonathan’s heart dropped. He ran, shouting his son’s name through halls that echoed too loudly. The front gate stood slightly open.
Panic consumed him. He rushed into the street, rain soaking his tailored suit, imagining sirens and hospital beds.
But when he turned the corner, he froze.
In the middle of a wide puddle of thick, black mud sat Ethan.
And he was laughing.
Not the polite smile he gave therapists. Not the tired grin after exercises. A real laugh—bright and wild.
Beside him stood a boy Jonathan had never seen before, about eight years old, barefoot, wearing faded jeans and a shirt too large for his thin frame. He held Ethan steady with surprising gentleness.
“What are you doing with my son?!” Jonathan shouted, fear quickly turning into anger.
“We’re just playing, sir,” the boy replied calmly, brushing mud from Ethan’s cheek.
“Step away! He can’t be here—he’s sick!”
Jonathan moved to lift Ethan, but the little boy pushed his father’s hand aside. Ethan’s small palms pressed into the mud as he struggled to push himself upward.
“He wants to stand on his own,” the boy said quietly. “Let him try.”