— he echoed Sarah’s words. Annie looked at her father for approval. Andrew nodded, trying to hide his own fear. “Okay,” she finally said.
“Let’s try.” Kyle smiled, and it was the first time Andrew had seen the boy truly grin. There was genuine joy there, and relief, as if he needed to prove this to himself as much as to them. “But I’m gonna need music,” Kyle said.
“Do you have a radio?” “We have a whole sound system, Spotify, whatever you need,” Andrew offered. “No, it needs to be a radio. A small one, something you can carry around.”
Andrew thought it was a weird request, but he didn’t argue. He asked Martha to check the storage room, and a few minutes later she came back with an old battery-operated transistor radio. “Perfect,” Kyle said, taking it carefully. “We’ll start tomorrow.”
“Today I just wanted to get to know you. Find out what you like, Annie.” They talked for another hour. Kyle asked about everything: Annie’s favorite flowers, her favorite songs, her favorite food. He seemed to be memorizing every detail, like it was the most important information in the world.
When Kyle left, Annie’s face looked different. Andrew couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she seemed less heavy, as if part of her burden had been shared. “What do you think, honey?” Andrew asked after the boy was gone.
“I believe him, Dad. He gets it. He knows it’s not about walking; it’s about *wanting* to walk.” Andrew hugged his daughter, feeling tears sting his eyes. She was right.
All these months, he’d been focused on the physical problem, the treatments and the therapies, but he’d missed the core. Annie didn’t need someone to fix her legs; she needed someone to help heal her heart. That night, Andrew made a decision. He hired a private investigator.
Not because he didn’t trust Kyle, but because he needed to know more about this kid: where he came from, why he was on the streets, and most importantly, if there was any real danger. The report came back three days later. The boy’s name really was Kyle.
He was twelve, and he’d been on his own since he was nine. His mother, Sarah, had disappeared when he was five, just like he said. His father had tried to raise him and his sister alone, but life had been hard. His father worked as a night watchman and took odd jobs during the day.
His sister, Daisy, really had stopped walking for a while. Medical records confirmed it, and Kyle had spent nearly a year trying to help her on his own. Daisy eventually walked again, but then tragedy struck. Kyle’s father had a heart attack and passed away.
The kids were sent to different foster homes. Daisy was adopted by a family in Georgia. Kyle, being older and having bounced through two homes where he didn’t fit in, ended up on the streets. Andrew read the report three times.
This boy had seen more heartache in twelve years than most people see in a lifetime, and yet here he was, offering to help another person in pain. Over the next few weeks, Kyle started coming to the house three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, always at three o’clock.
He was never late, and he always had that old radio tucked under his arm. The first few sessions were strange. Kyle just sat with Annie and talked about music. He asked about the songs she remembered dancing to, the ones that made her happy.
Then he’d tune the radio to a station and let it play. “We’re not starting with steps,” he explained. “We’re starting with listening. Your body has to remember what it feels like to move to a beat before it actually moves.”
Martha watched from a distance, still skeptical but less hostile. She had to admit Annie was changing—becoming more talkative, more alive, even starting to eat better. “There’s something about that boy,” Martha told Andrew one day.
“I don’t know what it is, but it’s there.” “He understands her pain,” Andrew replied, “in a way none of us could.” In the third week, Kyle brought something new. It was an old cassette tape with a faded label.
“This was my sister’s tape,” he explained. “She listened to it every day when she was learning to move again. There’s one song on here that always worked.” He put the tape in a player and hit play. A soft, simple, but beautiful piano melody filled the room.
And then Kyle started to move. He danced while sitting on the floor in front of Annie. His arms moved in wide circles. His hands traced shapes in the air. It wasn’t technical. There were no formal ballet positions or fancy footwork.
It was pure emotion turned into motion. Annie watched, mesmerized. Her hands, which usually sat motionless in her lap, began to twitch slightly to the rhythm. “That’s it,” Kyle encouraged, never stopping his dance.
“Don’t think, just feel it. Let your body answer.” Annie’s hands moved more, then her forearms. She closed her eyes and let the music take her. For the first time since the accident, she was dancing. Not with her legs, but she was dancing.
Andrew watched from the doorway, Martha standing beside him. He felt tears running down his face, but he didn’t wipe them away. This was the start of something. He could feel it. But it wasn’t all easy. Sarah, the psychologist, had warned that building hope could be dangerous.
Some evenings, after the sessions, Annie would get frustrated. She wanted more. She wanted to move her legs, not just her arms. “Why isn’t it working?” she cried one night after Kyle left.
“Honey, these things take time,” Andrew tried to comfort her. “But he said his sister walked again. Why aren’t I?” Andrew didn’t have an answer. The next day, he called Sarah. “This is normal,” she explained.
“Annie is invested now, and that’s great. But she needs to understand that everyone’s timeline is different. Kyle’s sister took almost a year, right? She needs patience, and so do you.”
The following week, something unexpected happened. Andrew’s mother, Beverly, showed up unannounced. She lived in Michigan and hadn’t been to the house in months. Andrew had avoided telling her about Kyle, knowing she’d be protective and skeptical.
Beverly was 72, a woman of firm opinions and traditional values. When she saw Kyle in the living room with Annie, she nearly had a heart attack. “Andrew, what on earth is going on here?” she asked, pulling her son into the hallway.
“Mom, I can explain.” “Then explain why there’s a street kid in my living room with my granddaughter.” “He’s helping her, Mom. He’s helping her get better.” “Helping? A boy with no education, no training, is going to do what a dozen doctors couldn’t?”
“He understands what she’s going through. He’s been there.” Beverly huffed—the sound Andrew knew from childhood that meant total disapproval. “You’ve lost your mind, Andrew. Completely.”
“I won’t let you put my granddaughter at risk on some whim.” “It’s not a whim, Mom. Annie is getting better.” “Better? She’s still in that chair.” “Yes, but she’s alive again. She’s interested in things. She’s trying.”
Beverly wasn’t convinced. She spent the rest of the day watching Kyle with suspicion, asking pointed questions, trying to catch him in a lie. But Kyle answered everything honestly, unfazed. “Why are you doing this?” she asked him at one point.
“What do you get out of helping my granddaughter?” “Nothing,” Kyle replied. “I just want to help.” “Everyone wants something. Money. A place to stay. What are you looking for?” “I’m not looking for anything. My sister walked again because someone believed she could.”
“I just want Annie to have that same chance.” “And where is your sister now? Why aren’t you with her?” Kyle looked away, and Andrew saw the pain flash across the boy’s face. “She was adopted. She lives in Georgia with a good family.”
“We don’t see each other anymore.” “And your parents?”
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