Then I reached for the door handle, found it on the second attempt, and pushed.
The car door opened smoothly.
Cool air brushed against my skin—different from the enclosed calm of the vehicle.
Outside, the world immediately expanded: sounds layered on top of each other, distant chatter, footsteps, a bell ringing somewhere deeper inside the compound.
I stepped out carefully, cane sweeping forward in a slow arc.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I didn’t turn back, didn’t acknowledge him—though I felt his eyes on me, steady and insistent, as if they were pressing into my skin.
I oriented myself toward the soundscape ahead—the faint chorus of children, the distant hum of a building full of life.
And I walked.
Each step was urgent.
The ground changed slightly beneath my feet—smooth pavement transitioning into a tiled walkway.
I adjusted immediately, recalibrating distance through sound and cane feedback.
“Miss Loretta, here...”
A familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.
Security.
Relief flickered through me.
His cane clicked against the ground twice in an even rhythm, a silent indication of direction that required no touch.
I turned slightly toward the sound and followed.
“Thank you,” I said quietly as I matched his pace.
He walked just ahead of me, careful not to rush, adjusting his speed so I could track him through sound and air displacement alone.
Even without sight, I could map his movement—the subtle rustle of uniform fabric, the controlled placement of his steps, the way he angled his body slightly to guide rather than lead.
We moved through the corridor.
First turn.
Then straight.
Then a softer hallway where sound dulled slightly due to padding on the walls.
The clinic.
The air changed immediately as we approached—cooler, layered with antiseptic and faint traces of children’s medicine.
My chest tightened.
