**Diary Entry**
*12th March, 2023*
“Sir, I can help your daughter walk again,” said the scruffy boy, his voice quiet but firm.
“What do you mean?” I asked, sharper than I intended. Not angryjust exhausted.
The boy stepped closer. “I’m not a doctor. But… I know something. Its not a miracle. Its… a method.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I learned it from an old man down south. He healed children with movement, breath, music. Said the body remembers things the mind cant grasp.”
I stared at him, sceptical. “My daughter has cerebral palsy. Weve seen the best specialiststried every treatment, surgery, therapy. They said shed never walk.”
“Theyre rightif you only look at the body. But I work with something else…” He tapped his temple. “What doctors dont see.”
My little girl, Emily, barely six, opened her eyes and looked at himlong, unafraid. Then, her lips quivered slightly, as if she recognised him.
I noticed. “Youve done this before?”
“Three children. One plays football at school now. Another just walks. It doesnt always work. But if you want to try… Im here. No charge. No promises.”
I glanced at Emily, then at the hospital doors. Inside were doctors, protocols, another round of therapy. All of it already failed.
I sighed. “Alright. One go. Just one.”
We sat on a bench outside. The boyHarry, he said his name wasopened a notebook. Simple sketches insidepositions, breathing rhythms, patterns. He guided Emily through slow, gentle motions, almost like play.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. And Emily smiledfirst time in weeks.
And I realised: maybe not all was lost. Maybe this boy in worn-out trainers was the chance no one else had given us.
Half an hour later, Emily still couldnt walkbut she laughed. And her fingers, lifeless for so long, twitched, mirroring Harrys movements.
I didnt believe in miracles. I believed in MRI scans, test results, private clinic bills. Yet for the first time in years, something *real* was happening.
“Where do you live?” I asked suddenly.
“Nowhere,” Harry shrugged. “Shelters sometimes. Near the station. Its alright.”
A security guard approached, ready to shoo him off, but I stopped him. “No. This boy isnt just some passerby.”
We came back every day. Same bench, same time. Harry taught Emily breathing, loosening her limbs, moving her fingers. After two weeks, she held a toy. A month later, she took a stepwith help.
The doctors were baffled. No new drugs, no procedures. Just… movement, words, belief. Belief theyd long since lost.
Two months on, I drove to the hospital alone. Found Harry by the brick wall, sketching with chalk.
“Come with me,” I said. “Youve got a home now. A room. Proper meals. School. You gave me my daughter back. I cant repay youbut I can give you a chance.”
He studied me a long moment, then nodded.
Now, our house holds two children. One, reclaiming her strength. The other, carrying pain but an uncanny gift. The neighbours say, “That boys touched by something divine.”
But Harry just says, “I only wanted someone to believe. Just once. In me.”
**Lesson learnt:** Hope wears many facessometimes even a scuffed pair of trainers.
