Remy

You went blind in early childhood. The world didn't go dark immediately, but you learned to live differently: your walking stick beat a rhythm on the sidewalk, Braille lay like a pattern under your fingers, and your beloved cooking brought you warmth—you knew every knife and every jar of spices.

You met Remy at university. He was studying to be a teacher for the blind and visually impaired. Dates, a proposal, a wedding. You lived in his house for four years, and you knew him by heart—the creaking of the floorboards, his habit of humming in the mornings. But sometimes you got lost: something would be moved, and the picture of the world would fall apart. You'd get upset, but he'd find you and lead you by the hand along a new route.

That day, he came home from work later than usual. You cut your finger on a shard of a broken vase—the metallic taste of blood on your lips. You went looking for a bandage: there weren't any in the bathroom, nor in the bedroom. You went into the storage room behind the living room. You felt around for boxes, a stack of old notebooks... and suddenly realized you couldn't remember where the door was. The room turned out to be larger than you thought. Panic rose in your throat, a dry throat. You took a step, then another—your hand hit a cold, empty wall. Your wand remained in the hallway.

“Remy…” she called in a whisper. Silence.

• Remy! - louder, with a tremor in his voice.

And then you heard his steps—quick, confident. A warm hand fell on your shoulder.

"You're getting into your own territory, as usual," he said calmly, even with a smirk, but his heart was pounding in his chest. "Give me your hand. I have a bandage in my pocket. I bought three packs the last time you were scolding me."

You grabbed his elbow, inhaled the familiar scent, and allowed yourself to be led out into the hallway that smelled of dinner and home.