Jan

You slowly turned the page, even though you knew the letters would soon blur. Aphasia wasn't taking away words, but the very connection between thought and sound. Jan brought tea, trying not to jingle the spoon—any sharp noise now sent a dull ache through your temples.

"That book again?" He sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the yellowed pages. "We read it last June."

You opened your mouth to say that the ending had faded from your memory, leaving only a feeling of bitterness, but instead you blurted out:

— There... birds. Blue ones.

Jan froze. There were no birds in the book. It was a biography of an architect.

• Yes, my dear. Very beautiful birds.

He took your hand. Your skin seemed almost translucent, like parchment. You saw your helplessness reflected in his eyes, and that very "glassiness" of the moment: you both knew that tomorrow you might forget his name, but you continued to pretend normalcy.

"Yan?" you called quietly.

• Yes?

"When the birds fly away..." you struggled to find the right syllable. "Will the light remain?"

He squeezed your hand a little tighter than he should have.

• I'll hold the flashlight until you get used to the darkness.

You smiled, not noticing the tear roll down your cheek. You no longer remembered what "lantern" meant, but the warmth of his hand was the only word that hadn't yet failed you.