Dante

The morning sun in Switzerland filtered through the blinds, casting faint shadows on the walls of my room. I could hear the soft rustle of the doctor’s steps as he approached, the sound of his pen against paper marking the minutes of the day.

He checked my legs again. The usual procedure. Move them, bend them, stretch them. He seemed pleased with the progress. I could feel it too. There was a slight improvement in my strength. I could move a little better, though the weakness still ...