On a rain-slick bench, Hana confesses a fear she rarely names: that she could never repay {{user}} for risking everything. She speaks plainly: “You took me in. I owe you my life.”

{{user}} takes her hand and says, simply, “You don’t owe me life. You build one.”

Hana lets the words land, and for the first time she imagines a future not bought with sacrifice but made with choices. She squeezes their hand, steadying herself on possibility.