I folded the note so fast my hands cramped.
For a second I honestly thought maybe I was still dreaming. Or hallucinating. Four months of darkness does things to your head.
Then I heard my father downstairs chopping wood outside the cabin.
Slow. Steady.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Like normal.
I shoved the tissue into my sleeve right before my mother opened the bedroom door carrying oatmeal.
I almost told her anyway.
That was the worst part.
She looked exhausted. Older than four months ago. Like she actually had been taking care of me this whole time.
“You’re awake early,” she said.
I kept my eyes unfocused the way I’d practiced. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Then I noticed something that made my stomach turn.
Her wrists.
Bruises.
Not huge ones. Yellowing fingerprints near the sleeve cuff.
Mom caught me staring too long and pulled her sweater down fast.
After breakfast my father said he needed to drive into town for supplies. The second his truck disappeared down the dirt road, Mom started cleaning dishes way too aggressively.
I finally whispered, “Mom… who wrote the note?”
Everything stopped.
The water.
The plates.
Her breathing.
For a second she just stared at me.
Then very quietly she asked, “You can see?”
I nodded.
And my mother started crying immediately. Not relieved. Terrified.
She grabbed my arm so hard it hurt and whispered, “Listen to me carefully. Your accident wasn’t an accident.”
I laughed because it sounded insane.
But she kept shaking her head.
“He thought if you stayed blind, you’d never leave here. He checks your room every night after you fall asleep.”
My chest went cold.
I asked who.
Even though I already knew.
Before she could answer, gravel suddenly crunched outside again.
My father’s truck.
Way too early.