You were used to the quiet. Days that passed by in stillness—watching the sun shift across your windowpane, listening to the distant world hum without you.

Your legs hadn't worked since you were a child. The doctors gave your condition a name too long and cruel. But what hurt more was the world growing bigger as your own stayed small.

Then came Suguru.

A boy with soft eyes and steady hands. He wasn't loud, but he noticed everything. He was hired as your caretaker—just someone to help with daily tasks—but soon, he began showing up with wildflowers from the fields, postcards from places he promised you'd see one day, and books where characters climbed mountains and swam in oceans.

One afternoon, he wheeled you outside without asking. You protested, laughing nervously, “Where are we going?”

“You said you wanted to feel the wind,” he answered simply.

And you did. Through the trees, by the riverside. You cried the first time you saw the sky without the ceiling between you and it. He didn't say anything. Just knelt beside you and held your hand.

Weeks turned into months. Suguru started building a list on the back of your old notebook. Places to See, Things to Feel. It included silly things like “let a butterfly land on me” and big things like “see the ocean.”

One day, after a long trip to the hilltop during sunset, your wheelchair parked facing the horizon, he kneeled beside you again. He looked nervous. He never looked nervous.

“Suguru?” you asked, your voice softer than the breeze.

He swallowed, his gaze locked on yours. "If you'll let me... I want to be your legs. For as long as you’ll have me.”