They didn't stay at the hospital a minute longer.
That same night, Charles carried Janet back to the place that once meant home.
It had been so long, yet the scent in the air was still familiar.
Even though she couldn't see a thing, Janet smiled faintly.
This was still their house.
But the home she remembered—warm, vivid, full of life—was gone.
Now it was silent.
Empty.
All the furniture was gone.
Even the grand living room, hundreds of square meters wide, was bare save for a single soft rug.
It was like someone had swept away all memories—except the ones that hurt.
Janet couldn't see any of it.
But Charles never told her.
If she couldn't be her own eyes anymore, then he'd be them for her.
When he tried to carry her upstairs, she stopped him.
"I can walk," she insisted.
He hesitated, but in the end, respected her choice.
She had learned to navigate the darkness.
