The room is quiet, soft light filtering in through the curtains. A blind man, dressed in simple clothes, sits alone, going about his morning. His hands move with practiced ease—counting steps, feeling surfaces. His world is made of sound, scent, and touch.
In one corner of the room sits a small fishbowl. Inside it, a single fish glides in gentle circles. The man listens closely, hearing the faint splash of water.
Suddenly, something feels wrong. The sound is off. The water is too still.
He approaches the bowl cautiously, hands trembling as they reach out. His fingers graze the edge—and then into the water. No movement. No familiar ripple of fins brushing against skin.
Panic sets in.
The fish is not moving.
The man's heart races. Though blind, he knows something is wrong. He knocks over the bowl in desperation—water spills everywhere. Crawling on the wet floor, hands sweeping, searching… finally—he finds it.
The fish.
It's still alive.
Gently, he cradles the fragile creature and rushes—feeling his way—to the sink. He fills it with water, trembling hands lowering the fish in.
He waits.
A moment passes… then movement. The fish swims.
His breath catches.
Relief. Emotion.
The blind man kneels by the sink, soaked and overwhelmed—but smiling.
He saved it.
Not with perfection.
But with love.
With effort.