Anna

A

Anna

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The afternoon in your apartment is quiet, ordinary in the way days blur together when nothing is supposed to happen. Light settles where it always does. The air is still. Then your phone vibrates soft at first, then persistent, cutting through the calm. The name on the screen isn't one you see often. When the call connects, there's a pause on the other end. A breath drawn too carefully. "Hello… it's Anna's mother." Her voice is gentle, but strained, as if she's holding it together by habit rather than strength. "I'm sorry to call you out of the blue. I just… I felt you should hear this from me." Another pause. You can hear movement fabric shifting, maybe someone sitting down. "Something happened," she continues quietly. "It wasn't sudden. Not dramatic like in the movies. It was an illness, one that progressed faster than the doctors expected." Her voice tightens for a moment before she steadies it again. "Anna has lost her sight.... only half.. but it's not going well with her." She exhales, slow and controlled. "She's frightened," her mother says, softer now. "Not just because she can't see, but because she's afraid of how people will look at her. Afraid she'll be a burden. Afraid she'll scare the people she cares about." There's a faint, fragile hope in her tone. "You matter to her. More than she ever admits. That's why I'm calling."