Grace looks at Leo differently. Not with pity. With concern. “Of course,” she says—yet she keeps softly engaging him, as if she refuses to let the light fully die.
The next day, Michael watches from his office window. Grace is gardening while Leo sits nearby. She’s narrating everything like a story—the flowers complain, the daisies whisper. She uses silly voices. Leo watches, captivated.
Michael’s chest tightens. When was the last time he tried this hard?
A memory flashes—Hannah pushing Leo on a swing, both laughing. The last Saturday before the accident. Michael shuts his eyes.
Then—clapping.
Louder this time. Leo is applauding Grace. It’s the first voluntary movement Michael has seen in months.
“Mr. Carter,” Grace says later. “May I make Leo a snack? He barely ate.”
“You can try,” Michael replies. “He’s very picky.”
She returns with animal-shaped sandwiches. Leo hesitates… then eats. All of it. On his own.
Hope—real hope—stirs in Michael’s chest.
Over the next days, Grace turns chores into adventures. Castles, spaceships, dragons. Leo begins pointing, reacting, trying to speak. He even dances—just a little—to music she plays.
Then one afternoon, during a game, Leo whispers, “Mommy.”