She opened the gate. He chose where to go.
The gate latch had been moved lower.
He noticed it as he brought his wheelchair along the path. Fresh screw holes marked the wood above the new fitting. His daughter had left the old latch on the windowsill, beside the small box of tools she had borrowed that morning.
She came out carrying his hat. He took it, settled it on his white hair, and looked towards the garden. Yesterday’s rain had left a puddle near the gate. Beyond it, the paving was dry.
“Shall I come?” she asked.
He considered the path, then nodded towards the bench.
“Bring your coffee.”
She went back inside. He reached for the latch, lifted it, and pushed the gate a little. It caught where the wood had swollen. When she returned, she held it open while he passed through, then followed with her mug.
At the turn, he eased the control back and waited for her to catch up. A small branch lay across the paving. She picked it up and moved it to the flower bed.
His legs had not become stronger overnight. The chair still needed charging, and the uneven ground beyond the paving would need another route. He looked past the bench towards the roses, then turned along the firmer path.
She sat down and moved her bag from the space beside her. He drew closer, adjusted his position, and let the control return to rest.
For a while, they watched a sparrow tug at something under the hedge. She lifted her coffee. He tipped his hat back so he could see where it had gone.
He had parked close enough to share the shade.
Literary note: This is a fictional epilogue about the wheelchair user in At His Own Command. The scene does not claim restored walking or portray a documented person’s recovery.
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