Lila lived for music. If she could hear it played live she began to tingle, even for a solitary instrument. There was something about the vibrations that felt so heavenly, as if it were liquid energy seeping right through her skin. Her mother said it was because she was blind, that her mind over compensated, but Lila swore she'd be just the same way with or without sight. Perhaps that's why she learnt to play so well, she felt it, craved it, expressed emotions better than any of her peers.
Caspian stops to catch his breath, one arm on the gnarled bark of a park tree. He lets his eyes wander to the bench on which he first kissed Cindy, and on it sits an old man. Though he faces the lake, doubtless listening to the ducks and the traffic that passes nearby, he can't possibly see the water... or anything else for that matter. His eyes move independently of one another from side to side; by his side sits a golden retriever in full harness, placidly waiting. Caspian smiles, like him this man is here for life's simple joys - fresh air, a closeness to community, to commune with nature. Break time is soon over and he runs onward to loop the lake one more time.
Pascal let his fingers follow the brail, his skin moving lightly over the bumps. As he read, the ticking clock became a metronome of the library chatter and hubbub - a steady beat behind the melodic laughter of children. The carpet smelt more stale than usual, perhaps because Pascal was accustomed to coming earlier in the week, closer to when Mrs Vaughn had vacuumed and replaced the flowers at the reception desk. Yet there was something else, a tincture in the air he couldn't quite place.
There were nights Hans dreamed in such vivid detail that when he woke he was confused, forgetting for a fraction of a second that his sight was gone. For the minutes that followed he felt the grief all over, the loss of things he never even considered missing. He'd never been one to dwell on flowers, the shape of a tree or passing clouds - poetry hadn't been his thing. He'd been all action, all hero, never slowing for even a day. Once the sadness became less acute he'd reach for his cane and slowly tap his way to the washroom he could remember but no longer enjoy. The walls were golden stone, the floor tiles the colour of summer baked earth, the fixtures white porcelain. He'd never see his own aging, forever thirty-six in his minds eye, though his fingers would tell him of the wrinkles and hair loss in due course. Part of him wondered if the dreams would change, if one day they'd be the same monochrome shadows of his days...
Shadows of light and dark were all that Sarah's eyes could detect. She knew day from night and proximity to a window on a sunny day; once in a while Tom would show her the smudge of the moon on a clear night. Without colours in her world, she loved texture, temperature and fragrance - loving the changes of the seasons for these simple joys. Beyond that she needed to touch, to be wrapped in Tom's arms at the end of each day, listening to the thud of his heart. Never once had he made anything of her blindness, she was just his sweetheart that had become his wife, special, treasured.
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