Heal me and I’ll give you my fortune,” said the millionaire. The maid’s son prayed, and fate changed. The sound of

the phone hitting the marble floor cracked through the air, dry, cold, like a gunshot exploding in the stillness of

the garden. The screen shattered, shards of expensive glass scattering and glinting beneath the afternoon sun. But

Alexander Crowwell did not look at them. What had just broken was not in his hand. It lay far deeper in a place no

surgery could ever reach. Alexander sat motionless in a wheelchair made of lightweight German imported

alloy. Its price alone enough to support a middle class family for years. To the

world it was a symbol of technology and status. To him it was nothing but a

gilded cage, a prison without bars and with no exit. The call that had just

ended was from Europe. the sixth doctor in two months. Zurich, Tokyo, Houston,

Paris. Names that once made him believe science would eventually bow to money.

But the voice on the other end of the line was the same as all the others. Cold, precise, hopeless.

We are very sorry, Mr. Crowell. The spinal cord damage has stabilized. There

are no remaining treatment options. Alexander laughed, a horse scraped sound

like metal grinding against bone. He hurled the phone away as if smashing it

could make the sentence vanish with it. Useless, he snarled, not knowing whom he

was cursing, the doctors, medicine itself, or his own body. Before him, the

garden stretched out like a painting, perfect to the point of cruelty. Flower beds were trimmed with centimeter

perfect precision. A French antique stone fountain murmured endlessly, its

clear water reflecting the deep red glow of sunset. Everything was alive.

Everything moved. Everything except him.

Alexander wore a customtailored dark blue suit, flawless and unrinkled. From

the waist up, he was still Alexander Crowell, founder of a leading biomedical conglomerate, a man whose signature

alone could alter the fate of thousands. But from the waist down, he was no

longer anyone at all. Just a dead, empty silence, a forgotten half of a body. “I

have everything,” he whispered, lowering his head, both hands clenched over his unmoving knees. “And I have nothing.”

Tears spilled hot and salty onto the backs of his hands. Alexander hated

tears. He hated weakness. All his life he had learned to swallow emotion and

turn it into ambition, into power. But now there was nothing left to transform.

Only naked fear remained. The fear of dying in this wheelchair, alone, bitter,

surrounded by things that no longer meant anything. A gentle breeze passed through the

garden. Leaves rustled softly. Alexander closed his eyes, trying to banish the

image of his future self. A half-p paralyzed old man, cared for by strangers, paid not to care. Then he

heard a strange sound, not the footsteps of the gardener. He had forbidden all

staff from coming near him at times like this. The sound was soft, hesitant, like

a dry branch being stepped on by some small creature. Alexander opened his

eyes, his sharp gaze sweeping over the neatly trimmed bushes. His brow furrowed

as familiar anger surged in his chest. Perhaps it was a stray dog, something

that had wandered into a place where it did not belong. He was about to shout, about to call security. But from between

the flower beds, a small figure stepped out. Alexander Crowell stared at the

child before him, a storm of unanswered questions racing through his mind. How

could a child like this pass through three layers of security? How had he walked into a garden guarded

more tightly than a central bank? But instead of anger, the first thing Alexander felt was

confusion. The child did not cry, did not tremble, did not lower his head like

the staff did when standing before him. He simply stood there, his head slightly tilted, observing Alexander with curious

eyes, as if the man in the wheelchair were the one who had wandered into the boy’s world. The boy took one step

forward, then another. Alexander unconsciously tightened his grip on the

wheelchair armrests. His instinct for control rose sharply. He hated

unpredictability. He hated disruption, especially when his mind was already

splintering. Stop. Alexander snapped softly, his voice with anger and exhaustion.

Who let you in here? The child did not answer. Perhaps he did not understand.

Or perhaps he understood perfectly and simply did not see the need to respond.

He stopped beside the wheelchair, close enough that Alexander could smell damp earth and dried grass clinging to the

boy’s clothes. A scent of real life out of place amid expensive perfume and cold

marble. Then the boy raised his small, dirty hand, his unevenly cut nails

visible, and gently placed it on Alexander’s knee. Alexander froze, not

because of sensation. He felt nothing at all. That knee had been dead for years.

But the image, a tiny hand resting on what had once been a living part of his body, tightened his chest in a strange

way. “Take your hand off,” Alexander growled, “you’re filthy.” The child did

not pull his hand away. He looked up at Alexander’s face, where the tears had not yet dried, and asked in a very

small, very clear voice, “Does it hurt a lot?”

The question fell into the garden like a stone thrown onto still water. Alexander

went still. No one had ever asked him that. No doctor asked how much it hurt.

They asked about symptoms, reflexes, recovery probabilities. Lawyers asked

about shares. Partners asked about profits. No one asked about pain.

Alexander let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Hurt? He leaned forward, his eyes sharp

as blades. Do you even know what pain is? He gestured around the garden,

pointed at the mansion behind him, pointed at the luxurious world he owned.