The courtyard of the Graves estate was designed for beauty, not miracles. White marble tiles reflected the afternoon sun. Ivy climbed the walls. Water trickled softly from the fountain, cold and clear, a decorative detail meant to impress guests—not heal a boy who hadn’t taken a step in four years.
Elliot Graves looked from the fountain to his son.
Noah sat in his wheelchair beneath the open sky, thin legs covered with a blanket, hands folded neatly in his lap. His eyes followed birds overhead, distant and detached, as if the world above his waist still existed, but everything below had been quietly abandoned.
“What you’re suggesting is dangerous,” Elliot said. “And cruel.”
The maid—Lina—didn’t raise her voice. She had worked in the house long enough to know shouting never changed men like him.
“I’m not suggesting,” she replied. “I’m asking for five minutes.”
Elliot had heard every promise before. Shamans. Healers. Experimental neurologists. They all wanted time. They all wanted hope. He had learned to shut that door.
But then Lina added, softly, “Has anyone ever seen him react to water since the accident?”
That stopped him.