The hum of machines no longer filled every corner of the room. After a week in the ICU, Dennis was finally moved into the rehabilitation ward. The sterile white walls were less intimidating, the lights softer, but for Ann, the shift carried a new kind of weight. This was no longer about surviving. It was about living again.
Nurses rolled his bed into the new room, a smaller, quieter space with windows that let in morning light. The curtains fluttered with a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of the hospital garden. Ann followed closely, her hand wrapped firmly around Dennis's.
"See?" she whispered, smiling though her heart trembled. "A better room. You'll see trees now. Birds. It feels less… cold."
Dennis's eyes moved toward the window. His lips curved faintly, but the expression fell quickly. The right side of his body lay still, as though it belonged to someone else.
Ann's POV
He was here. He was breathing. He could still talk to me. But as the days stretched, I began to see it—the shadow in his gaze, the way he turned away when the physiotherapist entered. He hated the helplessness, the way his body refused him.
"Good morning, Mr. Dennis," the physiotherapist said cheerfully that first day. "We'll try something simple today—just some assisted movement."
Dennis nodded stiffly, but his jaw tightened. When the therapist lifted his right arm, it dangled, lifeless. I saw the way Dennis's throat worked, his eyes wet.
"Try to move your fingers," the therapist encouraged.
Dennis concentrated, his brow furrowing. Nothing. Not even a twitch. His breath came harsh, as though effort alone could break through the silence in his body.
After a long, tense moment, he turned his head away. "I can't," he muttered, his voice slurred, thick with anger.
My chest ached. I caught his left hand, squeezing hard. "You can't yet. But you will. Every day we'll try, okay? One day, even one finger moving will be a miracle."
He didn't look at me. His silence was heavier than words.
Dennis's POV
I felt like half a man. My right side—gone. Dead weight. I couldn't hold Ann's hand with it, couldn't brush her hair back, couldn't even feed myself.
When the therapist bent my arm, it wasn't me moving—it was him. I was a puppet, strings pulled by strangers. The humiliation burned.
Ann's eyes shone with hope, but hope felt like a cruel joke. Didn't she see? This wasn't the man she fell in love with. This was a broken shell.
Later, when the therapist left, I whispered, "Ann… maybe I'll never recover."
Her face turned sharply toward me, eyes blazing through her tears.
"Don't say that," I snapped, though my voice broke. "Don't you dare."
He stared at me, his expression bitter. "Look at me. I can't move half my body. My words are thick, my smile crooked. I'm not me anymore."
I cupped his face gently, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Then we'll find a new you. And I'll love him just as much."
Tears spilled down his cheeks. I kissed them away, whispering fiercely, "Dennis, listen to me. You are still mine. Whole or broken, you are mine."
For a long time, he said nothing. But his left hand gripped mine with surprising strength, as if clinging to the lifeline I was offering.
Dennis's POV
Her words cut through me, fierce and unyielding. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to let her love be enough. But deep inside, fear gnawed at me—what if she grew tired? What if three months turned into years?
Still, I held her hand. Because in that moment, it was the only thing that made me feel alive.
The days blurred into a rhythm. Morning rounds. Physiotherapy. Speech exercises. Each session drained him, left him pale and sweating, but Ann never left his side.
During speech therapy, he tried to repeat simple words. "House." "Tree." "Love." The last one came out thick, broken. He hated himself for it.
But Ann's eyes lit up every time. "Say it again," she urged softly, as though each attempt was music. "Please, Dennis. Say it again."
And so he did. Again and again.
Ann's POV
There were moments he closed his eyes in despair, refusing to speak, refusing to try. I sat there, stroking his hair, whispering stories from our courtship—the silly jokes he once made, the promises we once exchanged. Slowly, his lips would twitch, a ghost of his old smile.
Sometimes at night, when the ward grew quiet, he would whisper in fragments. "What if… not walk… again?"
I would press his hand to my heart. "Then we'll build a life that doesn't need walking. A life of talking, dreaming, loving. We'll manage."
He shook his head weakly, but I saw it—the tiny spark in his eyes that told me my words still mattered.
Dennis's POV
I didn't want her to see me cry, but I couldn't stop it. The first time they stood me, supporting me with belts and bars, my right leg crumpled like paper. I felt the shame burn through me as I collapsed into the chair.
Ann knelt in front of me, brushing sweat from my forehead. "It's okay," she whispered. "Falling means you tried."
I wanted to scream, It means I failed! But the words tangled in my mouth.
Instead, I let her press my trembling hand to her cheek. And slowly, I let the tears come.
Weeks passed. Progress was slow, invisible to anyone but Ann. A faint twitch in his fingers one morning. A clearer word spoken after endless practice. To him, they felt like crumbs. To her, they were diamonds.
One evening, after a long day of therapy, Dennis whispered, "Ann…"
"Yes, love?" she leaned close.
"I'm scared."
She kissed his temple, whispering back, "So am I. But being scared together… that's strength."
The rehabilitation ward quieted as night fell. Machines hummed softly, footsteps echoed in distant corridors.
Dennis lay staring at the ceiling, his body aching, his pride wounded, his future uncertain. Ann curled in the chair beside him, her fingers entwined with his good hand.
"Sleep," she whispered. "Tomorrow, we'll try again."
He turned his head slowly toward her. His lips parted, words broken but clear enough. "What… if never?"
Ann's eyes shone as she bent close, her voice steady, unyielding. "Then we'll still live. We'll still love. Because Dennis, recovery isn't just moving again— it's choosing to keep going. And you've already done that."
Her words sank deep into him. For the first time since the accident, he felt a flicker of something stronger than despair. Not quite hope, not yet. But something close.
He closed his eyes, holding her hand tighter. Tomorrow, he would try again.