The Memory Of Light

Aubrey woke up feeling as though there had been a tremor within her. Her eyelids danced with an odd prickling feeling, and then she felt warmth. Fear curled in her chest, an old and familiar companion. But curiosity pushed it aside like a forgotten guest. She gave a hesitant flutter and opened her eyes while holding her breath.

Brightness. It was more than just a word. It was a tapestry made of shadows and sunbeams, a symphony of color. The landscape beyond her window sprang into brilliant life, as crimson swirled on the faded fabric of her blanket and emerald flickered in the leaves brushing across it.

A forgotten melody resonated in her chest: joy. She ran her hand over her face, appreciating the sleek lines and black hair that framed her view. The chamber, her refuge of recalled movements and sensations, glistened once more. Dust motes pirouetted in sunbeams, stars formed from ceiling cracks, and a map of forgotten laughter was revealed by the chipped mug on her bedside table.

Weeks stretched into days, a flurry of learning. Her eyes were like ravens, consuming the entire environment. The gnarled tree outside her window became a sentinel decked with green leaves, a familiar acquaintance in the dark. The busy market area transformed from a kaleidoscope of colors and expressions to a cacophony of sounds. Laughter, previously perceived as vibrations, now gleamed in amused eyes.

But there was fear at the periphery of her happiness. Wind-borne whispers, fleeting in nature, discussed borrowed time and the fleeting nature of sight. In her nightmares, she heard a disembodied, ethereal voice that said, frighteningly, “The sun will set on your eyes, child. Make the most of its fleeting warmth.”

Driven by foretelling, Aubrey set out to document the world through her reawakened perception. She drew everything, even children’s sun-kissed features and the intricate tracery of spiderwebs. She committed scenes to memory, the way the light glistened on the tops of mountains, the way the river meandered through the valley.

Lola Bening, her grandma, smiled bittersweetly as she watched. After years of weaving stories in the dark, her calloused and aged hands traced Aubrey’s sketches, a wordless conversation between them. Aubrey was now encouraged to see profoundly by Lola Bening, who had previously taught her to use her fingertips and heart to navigate the world.

Aubrey was drawn to the lively marketplace one day. Once oppressive, the noise now had a melody. She made her way through the crowds, attracted by the vivid colors of the spices and the steady tinkle of the blacksmith’s hammer. A little voice broke through the cacophony.

“Lost, miss?

Glancing around, she saw a small boy, perhaps six years old, with his frail clothing barely covering his emaciated body. His broad, inquisitive eyes had a hint of mischief about them.

“No,” she answered, her voice sounding strange. “I’m just admiring the sights.”

The boy knitted his brow. “But you can’t see. You’re blind, like me.”

Aubrey felt her heart thump. The prophecy mocked her borrowed vision as it reverberated in her head. But then knowledge was whispered in another voice—Lola Bening’s. “Sight is not just in the eyes, child,” it continued. “It’s in the heart, in the touch, and in the way you listen to the world.”

She flashed a smile at the boy. “I am blind,” she admitted, “but I can see the kindness in your eyes, the curiosity in your voice. And that, my little friend, is a sight more beautiful than any sunset.”

Something lit up in the boy’s eyes. He smiled, flashing a toothless grin. He led her through the packed stalls and said, “Then you must see a lot.” Instead of using words, he used sounds and textures to communicate the world to her: the sweet smell of honey cakes, the rhythmic thrumming of a drum, and the hard feel of a clay pot.

That day, Aubrey came to understand that seeing meant more than just taking in the beauty of the world. It was all about making connections and allowing people to weave their experiences into your own. Her vision may have been fleeting, but the stories she told, the generosity she showed, and the hearts she opened would endure because of the way she saw the world.

With a secret flickering in her eyes, Aubrey grinned. “Perhaps more than they see in themselves,” she said cryptically.

Kofi cocked his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

Aubrey grinned more broadly. “We all carry stories within us, Kofi,” she replied, her voice taking on a deep, almost fascinating tone. “Some hidden deep, others worn on our sleeves. But it takes a special kind of vision to truly see those stories, to hear the whispers they hold.”

Drawn in by her words and the peculiar intensity in her look, Kofi’s eyes grew wide. It was not the crisp nighttime air that sent a shiver down his spine, but rather the woman’s strange yet alluring aura.

With an almost audible voice, he murmured, “Can you see my story?”

Aubrey’s eyes gleamed, capturing the last of the sun’s rays like amethysts. Maybe, she muttered to herself, if you let me.

After closing her eyes momentarily, she opened them again as if gazing past him, into the woven pattern of shadows created by the waning light. Kofi held his breath, eagerness thrumming in his chest. Though he had no idea who this woman was or how she could have seen his narrative, something about her touch and words struck a deep-seated truth in him.

Aubrey then spoke, her tone confident but not overly loud. “I see a boy of the shadows,” she said, “wandering unseen, unheard. But within those shadows, I see a flicker of light, a yearning for adventure, a heart brimming with untold tales.”

Kofi was astounded. Her remarks struck a strange chord, expressing exactly what was going on in his private world, the loneliness that he tried to hide behind his bluster.

His voice was barely a whisper as he muttered, “How?“.

Aubrey gave him a mysterious smile. “That, little Kofi, is a secret the shadows share only with those who listen closely.”

After that, she rose and looked up at the starry sky overhead. She held out her hand and said, “Come on, let’s stroll beneath the stories the moon tells.”

She pulled at Kofi, who could not help but take her hand. He couldn’t help but wonder as they strolled through the growing darkness: who was this woman who appeared to see with both her eyes and her soul? What mysteries did she possess, and what untold tales could she reveal to him?

The evening developed, full of whispered stories and divulged secrets. Aubrey talked of whispering trees and fireflies, of constellations and stories tucked away in the heavens. In response, Kofi shared his visions of distant places and the thrilling experiences he had always desired.

They regretfully parted as the first signs of dawn illuminated the sky. But the encounter had left an everlasting impact on Kofi. With a fresh understanding of the stories woven into the fabric of daily life, he saw the world in a different light. And he was persuaded, beyond reason, that this woman, with her mysterious eyes and her stories of secrets, was more than she appeared.

The idea lingered in his thoughts, but he was unable to respond to it: Was Aubrey blind, or was she just more perceptive than those around her? The answer would only come with time and the emerging chapters of their common story.

With a secret flickering in her eyes, Aubrey grinned. “Perhaps more than they see in themselves,” she said cryptically.

Kofi cocked his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

Aubrey grinned more broadly. “We all carry stories within us, Kofi,” she replied, her voice taking on a deep, almost fascinating tone. “Some hidden deep, others worn on our sleeves. But it takes a special kind of vision to truly see those stories, to hear the whispers they hold.”

Drawn in by her words and the peculiar intensity in her look, Kofi’s eyes grew wide. It was not the crisp nighttime air that sent a shiver down his spine, but rather the woman’s strange yet alluring aura.

With an almost audible voice, he murmured, “Can you see my story?”

Aubrey’s eyes gleamed, capturing the last of the sun’s rays like amethysts. Maybe, she muttered to herself, if you let me.

After closing her eyes momentarily, she opened them again as if gazing past him, into the woven pattern of shadows created by the waning light. Kofi held his breath, eagerness thrumming in his chest. Though he had no idea who this woman was or how she could have seen his narrative, something about her touch and words struck a deep-seated truth in him.

Aubrey then spoke, her tone confident but not overly loud. “I see a boy of the shadows,” she said, “wandering unseen, unheard. But within those shadows, I see a flicker of light, a yearning for adventure, a heart brimming with untold tales.”

Kofi was astounded. Her remarks struck a strange chord, expressing exactly what was going on in his private world, the loneliness that he tried to hide behind his bluster.

His voice was barely a whisper as he muttered, “How?“.

Aubrey gave him a mysterious smile. “That, little Kofi, is a secret the shadows share only with those who listen closely.”

After that, she rose and looked up at the starry sky overhead. She held out her hand and said, “Come on, let’s stroll beneath the stories the moon tells.”

She pulled at Kofi, who could not help but take her hand. He couldn’t help but wonder as they strolled through the growing darkness: who was this woman who appeared to see with both her eyes and her soul? What mysteries did she possess, and what untold tales could she reveal to him?

The evening developed, full of whispered stories and divulged secrets. Aubrey talked of whispering trees and fireflies, of constellations and stories tucked away in the heavens. In response, Kofi shared his visions of distant places and the thrilling experiences he had always desired.

They regretfully parted as the first signs of dawn illuminated the sky. But the encounter had left an everlasting impact on Kofi. With a fresh understanding of the stories woven into the fabric of daily life, he saw the world in a different light. And he was persuaded, beyond reason, that this woman, with her mysterious eyes and her stories of secrets, was more than she appeared.

The idea lingered in his thoughts, but he was unable to respond to it: Was Aubrey blind, or was she just more perceptive than those around her? The answer would only come with time and the emerging chapters of their common story.