He remembered her climbing trees with effortless grace, her body light and agile as she moved from branch to branch.
He remembered her riding her bike too fast, always pushing the limits, always chasing something just beyond reach.
Then came the accident.
A blind spot.
A speeding car.
One moment.
One mistake.
Everything gone.
The doctors called it a miracle that she survived.
But what kind of miracle leaves someone trapped inside their own body?
The years that followed had been relentless.
Hospitals.
Therapies.
Adjustments.
Each small improvement came at a cost. Each setback hit harder than the last.
He became everything for her—caretaker, advocate, protector.
He learned a life he had never imagined—wheelchairs, ramps, accessibility plans, endless paperwork.
He fought insurance companies. Battled bureaucratic walls. Buried his own grief just to be strong enough for her.
But beneath it all, something darker lingered.
Not resentment toward her.
Never that.
But toward the unfairness of it all.
The life stolen.
The future erased.
He saw it in her eyes too—the quiet flicker of despair, the unspoken question that haunted her.
Why me?
He tried to fill the emptiness.
Tried to give her everything she had lost.