“Five minutes,” Noah said. “If nothing changes, I’ll disappear.”
Daniel hesitated, torn between disbelief and a hope he’d sworn off. He thought of Elena’s stillness, of doors closing politely in his face.
“Five minutes,” he said.
Noah entered Elena’s room without ceremony. He didn’t touch the wheelchair or talk about healing. He sat beside her and folded a piece of colored paper, slow and careful.
“What are you making?” Elena asked.
“Something honest,” he said.
When he finished, he placed a small paper bird on her blanket. “A crane. They carry wishes.”
“Does it work?” she asked.
“Only if you tell the truth.”
“I’m scared,” Elena whispered.
“I know,” Noah said gently.
He spoke of the accident—details he couldn’t have known—of the fear that froze her before pain arrived, of how stillness felt safer than movement.
“Your body learned to protect you,” he said. “It just doesn’t know it’s safe yet.”
“I don’t want to be scared,” she said.
“Then let’s tell your body that,” Noah replied. “Just a little.”
He didn’t touch her. He simply stayed close. “Wiggle your toes,” he said. “Not because you must. Because you can.”
Daniel’s breath caught. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—barely—Elena’s toes moved.