You start the work the next morning, and it’s nothing like the victories you’re used to buying.
You sweat on mats in a mansion that used to exist only for comfort.
You shake through repetitions that feel like bargaining with your own nerves.
Marina pushes you without cruelty, counting reps like she’s counting you back into your life.
You hate her for it sometimes, and then you’re grateful, and then you hate yourself for needing anyone.
Sofía cheers every tiny improvement like it’s fireworks.
When you manage a clean transfer without assistance, she claps so hard she loses her balance.
And you realize you haven’t heard this much laughter in your house since before your accident.
One afternoon you corner Marina with the question you’ve been swallowing for weeks.
“You talk like someone who’s done this for years,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing.
Her hands still on your forearm, she hesitates, and the air changes.
“My little brother had a motorcycle accident,” she admits.
“L2 damage, they said he’d never walk again.”
You hold your breath, because you can already feel where this story leads.
“I didn’t accept it,” she continues, eyes sharp with remembered fire.
“I studied neuroplasticity, progressive stimulation, protocols from everywhere I could find them.”
“And he walked again in eight months,” she finishes, and your stomach flips like the universe just offered you proof.
You laugh once, short and disbelieving, because you don’t know what else to do with that kind of courage.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, and your pride tries to mask the tremor in your voice.
“Because you hired me to care for Sofía,” she says softly.
“I didn’t want to cross lines.”
You stare at her, realizing you’ve built your empire by crossing every line that ever tried to cage you.
“If you can help me walk,” you say, “then there are no lines between us that matter.”
Marina’s cheeks flush, and for a second the room feels too small for the electricity between you.
Then your phone rings, and the past decides to kick the door down.