At three, Leo received his first proper child-sized mobility cane.

He hated it.

Not because of shame.

Because he preferred touching everything with his hands.

His orientation specialist, Maya Reynolds, made it a game.

Tap.

Sweep.

Stop.

Listen.

Leo used it for twelve seconds.

Then threw it.

Grandpa said:

“Strong arm.”

Maya glared.

Grandpa apologized.

Next session:

Twenty seconds.

Then a minute.

Months later, Leo could move through familiar hallways confidently.

One afternoon he tapped the wall beneath the old nursery monitor mount.

The monitor had been moved by then.

“Cam?”

Dad froze.

We had told Leo nothing about the attack.

Too young.

He simply remembered there used to be something above his crib.

Dad said:

“Old camera.”

Leo shrugged.

Then walked away.

The object held history for us.

Not for him.

That was good.