Alejandro sits in his wheelchair, staring at the metal braces beside him like they are not medical equipment, but a dare.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says.
His voice is sharp, but you hear the fear beneath it.
You are only seventeen. You are not a nurse. You are not a physical therapist. You are a maid with tired hands, aching feet, and a stolen dream of finishing high school folded somewhere inside your chest. But you know what it feels like when everyone decides your life is over before you do.
So you kneel in front of him and pick up one brace.
“Yes,” you say softly. “I do.”
He laughs bitterly.
“You think hope is enough?”
“No,” you answer. “Hope is useless if you don’t move.”
He looks at you then.
Really looks.
In that mansion, everyone treats Alejandro DeVega like broken furniture kept on the third floor because throwing him away would look cruel. His mother sends meals. His father sends doctors. His younger brother sends nothing. But nobody sends courage.
