While Marissa had photographed the room, I had noticed an envelope on the side table addressed to Penelope. Her phone number had been written beneath the return address.

I copied it down before leaving.

Brian began begging, his voice low and desperate, reaching for my hand as he had done countless times before.

I stepped away.

“The woman you thought would never see you again is standing right here. And I see everything.”

Then I left without another word.

Several weeks later, I sat beside the window in my own small apartment.

The Christmas lights I had finally hung shimmered across the glass in the evening light.

Marissa knocked on the door carrying takeout containers and a bottle of wine.

“You look different,” she said, smiling.

A brief note from Penelope rested on the counter.

Only one sentence.

“Thank you for telling me the truth.”

I looked toward the lights, then at my reflection in the window.

Losing my eyesight had taught me to depend on others.

Getting it back taught me to depend on myself.