When Paige arrived, she looked nervous standing at the front door in her simple coat and worn shoes. Harold greeted her wearing dark glasses and leaning on a cane. He told her he had lost his sight years earlier. Paige accepted the story without hesitation and began her work with quiet dedication. She cleaned, cooked, read aloud from newspapers, and guided him through the garden paths. She never raised her voice, never showed impatience, and often spoke to him as though he were any other person, not a powerful figure fallen into solitude.
In the evenings, Paige sometimes paused before a large portrait hanging in the main living room. The painting showed Rose Whitman seated by a window, sunlight touching her hair, a diamond necklace resting at her throat. Paige never stared long, but Harold noticed. He noticed everything. Beneath his dark glasses, his eyes were sharp and fully functional. The cane was a prop. The blindness was a performance. He wanted to see what people did when they believed he could not see them.
One evening while Paige fed him soup, she spoke softly. “Sir, the woman in the painting was very beautiful.”