The whole gala stopped breathing.

The man stared down at his leg like it belonged to someone else.

For years, he had felt nothing.

No cold.

No pressure.

No pain.

But now his foot was trembling beneath the boy’s hand.

The wine glass slipped from his fingers and shattered under the table.

Guests gasped.

The boy didn’t move.

“Three,” he whispered.

The man cried out and grabbed the armrests of his wheelchair.

A woman near the table covered her mouth.

The man looked at the boy, no longer laughing.

“How are you doing this?”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m not fixing your leg.”

The man froze.

The boy slowly pulled a folded photograph from his pocket and placed it on his lap.

It showed a woman in a hospital bed.

And the same man standing beside her wheelchair years ago.

The man’s face went pale.

The boy’s voice shook.

“You promised my mother the same thing.”

Silence fell over the golden tables.

The man stared at the photograph like it had found him from the grave.

“She died waiting for the treatment you sold her.”

The boy looked at his trembling foot.

Then back at him.

“My mother said if I ever found you, I should touch your leg and ask one question.”

The man could barely breathe.

The boy leaned closer and whispered,

“Can you feel what you did to her now?”