After breakfast, Mia cleared the dishes quickly and carried a small leather case tucked with needles, alcohol swabs, and a little vial of herbal oil she'd prepared the night before. She had studied every scrap of information she could find—pressure points, nerve pathways, circulation techniques—and stayed up late practicing the hand movements until they felt second nature.
Aiden waited in the quiet therapy room, the afternoon light soft against the pale walls. Mrs. Clara, the therapist, adjusted a resistance band on the parallel bars and looked up when Mia entered.
"You're early," Clara observed kindly. "Good. We'll begin in a moment."
Mia set her case on the table but spoke first to Aiden. She kept her voice steady, gentle. "I thought I'd try something before the session—acupuncture and some targeted stimulation. It helps with circulation, reduces spasms, and can encourage nerves to re-engage. If the muscles get better blood flow and the nerves respond, the therapist will have something to work with."
Aiden arched a brow in skepticism but didn't argue. "Do what you want," he muttered.
Mia's hands were calm as she disinfected the points she'd chosen: along the calf where muscles had atrophied, near the sciatic exit point, and small distal points that encouraged neural feedback. She explained as she worked, more to reassure herself than him. "The needles stimulate the local nerves. It can reduce inflammation, improve microcirculation, and sometimes the body notices — sends signals back. For some people, it's the nudge their nervous system needs."
He watched her with that same guarded intensity he used for everything: measuring, weighing, not sharing anything. But he didn't stop her.
The first few minutes were quiet. Mia inserted a few thin needles with practiced ease and applied light massage and an herbal compress that smelled faintly of camphor and ginger. She held his leg, warming it with her palms, coaxing circulation. She felt the tension in the muscles slowly ease beneath her fingers. After fifteen minutes, when she gently tapped a distal point, Aiden's foot gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
Clara, who had been prepping the parallel bars, noticed the small movement and stepped closer. "Did you see that?" she asked, her voice almost breathless.
Mia nodded, surprise and hope flooding her face. "It's a good sign. It shows the nerve pathway is responding. That's why I wanted to try this before we started formal training."
They moved to the bars. The therapist guided Aiden carefully through supported steps—weight shifting, balance, coaxing the muscles to remember how to contract in sequence. At first, his efforts were clumsy; he fought instinct and fear. But with Mia standing close—her hand ready to steady a wobble, her quiet encouragement like an anchor—he began to trust the motion.
On the third attempt, something changed. Aiden pushed with his right foot and then, tentatively, his left foot followed—not a full step, but a conscious, controlled movement. His knee bent. The muscles in his thigh tensed and did what they had not done unaided in years.
For a heartbeat the room held its breath.
Clara released a low, delighted exhale. "That was deliberate. You did that. You felt it, didn't you?"
Aiden stared down at his leg as if seeing it for the first time. There was a mixture of astonishment and a defensive, reluctant joy on his face. "I—" he began, voice low. He glanced at Mia. "It's different when you—when you help."
Mia's smile broke across her face, small and luminous. Relief and excitement fluttered in her chest. This is working. She kept her voice steady though her hands shook a little. "You worked for it. I just gave… a little nudge."
She thought of her mother's hospital bed, the impossible bills, the surgical dates that had been postponed because of money. Each twitch, each small conscious bend of muscle meant she was closer to the pay she needed. The idea that her hands—her knowledge—could change a life and pay for her mother's surgery was dizzying.
Aiden noticed her expression and for once didn't look away. The gratitude in his eyes was muddled with something else—surprise, and maybe a dawning respect. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.
When the session ended, Clara placed a gentle hand on Aiden's shoulder. "Small steps, Mr. Lawrence. Each one counts." She turned to Mia. "Keep doing what you're doing. It's helping."
As they left the therapy room, Aiden wheeled slightly ahead, glancing back once. Mia's heart thrummed in her chest—not only because of the professional success but because she had been necessary to him that day.
For Aiden, the sensation was new and unnerving. He had pushed himself before, stubborn and alone, and had gotten nowhere. Yet when Mia worked alongside him—calm, determined—his body responded. The difference made him uneasy and strangely grateful. He didn't know how to name the feeling; it unsettled the careful control he liked to maintain.
Mia walked beside him, the sun making a small halo around her hair. She dared to think—if this continued, she could secure the operation her mother needed. She would get paid; she would save her mother's sight. The thought steadied her more than any words could.
They moved through the hallway with a new, fragile rhythm: patient, hopeful, and quietly determined.