Six Months Later
Miles didn’t wake up the next day and run.
Recovery was still slow. Therapy still hurt. His legs still shook. Some mornings, progress felt like a rumor.
But he kept going.
Not to impress anyone.
Because he’d felt grass beneath his knees once—and he refused to forget that.
Six months later, on a bright Sunday afternoon in a lakeside neighborhood park, Miles walked.
Not perfectly.
There was a slight limp. He needed a steady pace.
But he walked.
Owen ran ahead, laughing, kicking a soccer ball across the grass like the world had always been kind.
Lena sat on a nearby bench, hands folded, watching as if blinking might make it vanish.
Miles kicked the ball back—awkward, uneven—and the boy cheered as if it were the greatest goal ever scored.
Miles smiled, breathless, his eyes burning.
He didn’t feel powerful anymore.
He felt fortunate.
