To anyone watching, Alexander “Alex” Whitmore looked like a man who had everything—perfectly tailored suit, polished shoes, dark glasses shielding his eyes. But inside, his world had been dark for six months.
A car accident had taken his sight. And with it, his certainty.
“Alex, please stop shifting around. You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” his wife, Victoria Whitmore, said sharply beside him.
“I was just trying to feel the sun,” he answered quietly. “Is it bright today?”
“Yes. Too bright. And I have to take a call with the board. Don’t go anywhere. And please, don’t talk to strangers. People stare. It’s uncomfortable.”
Her heels clicked away, leaving him alone with the hum of the city and the rustle of trees. For a moment, the solitude felt like relief.
Then he sensed someone standing in front of him. Not perfume. Not leather or silk.
Smoke. Rain. Earth.
“I can fix your eyes,” a small voice said.
Alex stiffened. “Who’s there? Where are your parents?”
“That doesn’t matter,” the girl replied calmly. “Your eyes aren’t broken. They’re sad. My grandma says when sadness blocks the light, you can’t see. But when you let it out, the light comes back.”