w bólu, chorobie i codziennym cierpieniu życia w kraju, który powoli uczy się postępów, jak uparty student.
When the illness struck me in the spring of 1895, it wasn’t a dramatic event. The feeling was a weariness that deepened with each passing day, until even breathing became a strain.
Isaiah sat by my bed, holding my hand as if his touch could anchor me to the world.
“Thank you,” I whispered softly. “For seeing me. For loving me. For making me whole.”
Isaiah’s face tightened. “First you healed me,” he
