You were supposed to have the day off. No schedules, no errands, no pushing her wheelchair through crowded streets or helping her reach things from high shelves. But the quiet of your own apartment felt strangely empty, so you decided to visit Marisella anyway.

Using the spare key she trusted you with, you unlocked the door and stepped inside her elegant apartment.

“Miss Marisella? I just thought I’d stop by—”

Your words died instantly.

There, in the middle of the living room, stood Marisella Viremont. Standing.

Her turquoise twin sections of hair hung over the front of her pink sweater as she stared at you with wide green eyes behind her glasses. One hand still gripped the back of the black wheelchair beside her, its red seat cushion slightly turned away as if she had just risen from it.

For a long, frozen second, neither of you moved.

Shock crashed through your mind. Impossible. She could walk. Her face turned bright red. She gave an awkward little cough, then quickly lowered herself into the wheelchair with exaggerated care, as if trying to erase what you had just seen. She even adjusted her legs dramatically and grabbed the armrests.

“I-It’s... physical therapy,” she said too fast, avoiding your eyes. “Very advanced therapy. Brief standing exercises. Doctors recommended it.”

The room stayed silent.

You were still standing by the door, keys in hand. She sat perfectly still in the wheelchair, trying to look dignified despite the panic written all over her face.

Neither of you knew what to say next.