Their eyes met again, and Jonah smiled—not with politeness or pity, but with warmth that felt honest and unguarded.
“Hello,” Jonah replied, as though the word had been waiting for him.
Nadia hovered nearby, unsure and uneasy, her instincts telling her that this meeting was crossing invisible boundaries of class and safety, but she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt the quiet warmth that had settled over Samuel’s face.
At first, the boys spoke hesitantly, their words careful and sparse, but as the conversation continued, the distance between them shrank, replaced by the comfort of shared space. Samuel talked about hospitals and machines, about doctors who meant well but never truly listened, about parents who loved him fiercely yet feared hope more than they feared disappointment. Jonah shared stories of sleeping beneath the open sky, of a grandmother who once told him stories until her voice grew too tired to speak, of learning to trust silence more than promises.
When Samuel admitted that he had never walked on his own, Jonah didn’t look away.
“Does it hurt?” Jonah asked softly.
“No,” Samuel replied. “It just doesn’t work.”
Jonah nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s been waiting for the right question.”
The words settled in Samuel like sunlight spilling through a cracked window.
“Trust me,” Jonah whispered. “Even if it’s just a little.”
Samuel’s heart raced, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
At first, there was nothing, then a faint tingling sensation, like distant sparks traveling beneath his skin, climbing slowly with hesitant determination. His breath caught, his fingers tightened on the armrests, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“I feel something.”
Continue reading…
