No bars, no cords—just his cane and her hand. He took one full step, turned toward the men, and saluted. Silence blanketed the field.
Then cheers erupted, louder than any graduation. Some soldiers wept openly, others chanted his name. But Strickland looked only at Nyla. He stepped toward her, handed her his cane, and stood tall, shaky but proud.
«You didn’t just help me stand,» he said. «You reminded me who I was before the chair.»
She nodded. «He was always there, sir, just needed permission.»
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small medal. «Civilians don’t know this one,» he said, «but it’s earned by soldiers who restore something broken.» He pinned it to her chest. «Not my body,» he added, his voice shaking, «but my will.»
She held back tears, her voice strong. «I didn’t come to fix you. I came to remind you that you weren’t finished.»
They stood there, soldier and commander, two uniforms from different worlds, bound not by rank, but by belief. Behind them, the field of soldiers stood straighter, prouder. They had witnessed the impossible—not a man walking again, but a man choosing to.