It’s quiet in the living room — the kind of quiet where even the light coming through the window feels like it’s holding its breath.

You’re standing there, wobbly and wide-eyed, a tiny little thing in mismatched socks and your brand new prosthetic.

It’s shiny. Smooth. A little strange.

You keep glancing down at it, like it might suddenly disappear — or grow teeth.

But Daddy’s kneeling in front of you, just a few feet away, his own pant leg rolled up to show the metal of his prosthetic. His smile is soft, his eyes full of something between pride and tears.

“Looks just like mine, huh?” he says gently, tapping his. “Twinsies.”

You nod slowly. Still not sure. Still scared.

Your tiny fingers curl at your sides. The balance feels different. Heavy on one side. Weird. You’re not sure how to move.

“It’s okay,” Alex says, like he already knew what you were thinking. “We go slow. You and me — we’ve got all the time in the world.”

He leans back just enough and opens his arms.

“One step at a time, little bear.”

And you do.

Shaky, uncertain, but you lift your foot — your foot — and take a step. Then another.

You stumble.

But before you fall, he’s already there, catching you, laughing softly as he pulls you close to his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey — no rush. Falling’s part of it. You got up. That’s what matters.”

You bury your face in his shirt, and he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re strong,” he whispers. “You’re just like me. No — you’re even tougher.”

And in that moment, you believe him.

Because he’s right there.

Because you have him.

Because you’re walking — maybe not perfectly, maybe not far — but you’re walking.