One afternoon, she noticed a study door slightly open.
Inside, Nate strained toward a high bookshelf, frustration tightening his jaw as his fingers brushed the spine of a navy-blue book he couldn’t quite reach. His wheelchair pressed awkwardly against the wall. His arm shook with effort.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Sofia stepped forward.
“Do you want help?” she asked, her voice small but steady.
Nate turned sharply. “Who are you?”
She took a step back, then lifted her chin. “I’m Sofia. I came with my mom.”
Anger flickered. “Your mother brought a child here?”
“My school closed,” Sofia explained quickly. “I promised to be quiet.”
He opened his mouth to dismiss her, then stopped. Arguing with a five-year-old felt absurd.
“Which book?” she asked again.
Without understanding why, he pointed.
Sofia climbed onto a nearby chair, grabbed the book easily, and handed it to him with a smile that didn’t wait for approval. Her warm fingers brushed his hand—unafraid.
