When the machines stopped, the world should have ended with them, but instead it continued with cruel precision. His own injuries were discovered later, the damage to his eyes described clinically, without drama, as if blindness were an unfortunate inconvenience rather than a second burial. When the bandages were removed and he opened his eyes to nothing at all, he understood that he had lost not only his wife but the version of himself who had known how to move forward without fear.
People praised his adjustment. Therapists admired his discipline. Journalists called him inspiring. Michael learned how to navigate space with memory and sound, how to maintain authority through preparation and tone, how to keep his voice steady while something inside him remained permanently unmoored. His home became a controlled environment where every object had a place and surprise was eliminated wherever possible.
Except at the dining table.