As I settled into the chair beside his bed, I couldn't help but notice the tension in his body, the way his muscles seemed to strain even in rest. His condition was more than just physical; it was a presence, a constant reminder of what he had lost. I opened the book, careful not to let my fingers tremble, and began to read aloud. The words felt foreign in my mouth at first, but soon, the rhythm of the story took over, and I lost myself in the narrative.
Every now and then, I would glance up to see his reaction. His face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed him. They flickered with interest, softening at moments of humor and hardening at the more dramatic turns. It was clear he was a man who missed engaging with the world, a man trapped in a body that no longer obeyed him.
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