«I’ll give you a million if you cure me,» smiled the billionaire… Until the child touched him…
He walked from the bed to the chair. Ten steps. Each cost effort.
But each was real. The world inside him hummed with change. He didn’t know how to explain it.
The doctors didn’t either. Scans showed nothing supernatural. The spinal cord damage remained, but somehow neural circuits began to regrow.
This hadn’t happened. Almost never. Or very rarely…
To a few. Spontaneous neuroregeneration, they said. And added.
It’s inexplicable, but possibly unstable. He nodded. But he knew one thing.
This wasn’t coincidence. He went to the park the next day. Without security, without announcement, without the chair.
Just came and sat on the same bench under the sycamore. People didn’t recognize him. A gray-haired man with a cane in a simple gray coat.
He waited. «Where’s that boy?» he asked the kids playing nearby again. «Which one?»—with the red stethoscope.
«His name is Luke.» They exchanged glances, shrugged. No one knew.
No one even remembered. Maybe from another neighborhood. He came there every day.
Sat from morning to evening. Sometimes alone, sometimes in a crowd. Sometimes reporters approached.
The news of the miracle had already started leaking to the press. He brushed them off. Searched for Luke.
One evening, when leaves were already flying on the asphalt, a man sat next to him. Homeless-looking, in a smoke-soaked jacket, but with lively eyes. «You’re looking for him?» he asked quietly.
Alexander looked at him distrustfully. «Luke, I know who you mean. Saw him do it.»
«Where is he?»—»Don’t know exactly. But a couple times he was seen near the old school on the outskirts of New York. There, where houses were demolished.
Now it’s like a shelter. Or something like that. Roof leaks, but no one cares.»
«Address?»—the man named the intersection. Alexander pulled out his wallet, handed a bill. «I’m not for money,» the man waved off.
«Just good when the rich seek the right people, not the other way around.» The school he mentioned stood as if torn from time. Graffiti on the walls, cracks in the windows, overgrowth by the fence.
On the gates, a sign. Object for demolition. But behind it, a child’s voice.
Laughter. Someone singing. He walked through the yard, pushed the door.
Inside smelled of dust, soup, and something warm, human. Walls peeling, but covered in children’s drawings. Dozens, maybe hundreds.
He saw her first. An old woman in a scarf, with a tired face but kind eyes. «Excuse me, I’m looking for a boy, Luke.»
She froze. Then straightened. «And you are Alexander Harrington, right?» He nodded silently.
«He said you’d come.» «Where is he?» «He’s outside, but will return soon.» She walked ahead, pointed to photographs on the wall.
People. Homes. Before and after…
