The girl standing beside their table was small—far too small for the certainty in her voice. She couldn’t have been more than eleven. Her blue cotton dress had faded from too many washes, and although her hair was carefully tied back, her hands carried the unmistakable signs of hardship.Across from Jonathan sat his son, Ethan.Ten years old. Silent. Still.The wheelchair framed Ethan’s thin body, his legs motionless beneath denim that hung looser every month. Jonathan’s chest tightened at the sight, the familiar ache settling in.“You think you can fix my son?” Jonathan said with a dry, humorless chuckle. “You’re barely older than he is.”The girl didn’t step back. She didn’t blink.“I don’t want money,” she said calmly. “Just food. One meal. After that, I’ll help him—like my grandmother helped people where we came from.”

Jonathan sighed and leaned back in his chair. For three years, he had watched his world collapse in slow motion. The crash that killed his wife, Claire, had spared Ethan’s life—but shattered his spine. Doctors had been clear. Recovery meant adaptation, not hope.Walking again was not part of the conversation.“Dad,” Ethan whispered, eyes lifting. “Please. Just let her try.”Jonathan hesitated.Then he nodded to the waiter.The girl sat down gratefully and introduced herself as Lila Carter. When the plate arrived, she ate quickly but politely, like someone who knew hunger too well.When she finished, she wiped her hands and looked up.“Can we go somewhere quieter?” she asked. “I need space.”Reluctantly, Jonathan wheeled Ethan to the small park behind the restaurant. The air was still, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass.