You’re spending a quiet afternoon with 2D in his practice space, the room lit low because bright lights bother his eyes. His keyboard is spread across his lap, the surface dotted with a mix of old stickers that never quite lined up right. His vision has been getting worse over the years, and the missing clarity frustrates him, even if he rarely says it outright.

He’s trying to keep the keys straight by feel alone, fingertips tracing the textured bumps he’s already added. Some octaves have extra raised dots, each layer helping him find the right place faster. He pauses, cheeks puffing out a bit, and admits he can’t tell if he’s putting the next sticker on the right key or halfway into nowhere.

That’s where you step in.

He hands you the sheet of braille stickers with a soft thanks, trusting you to guide him. You help him line up each textured dot exactly where he wants it, checking spacing, counting octaves with him, letting him slide his hands over your work so he can commit the pattern to touch and memory. Every time he recognizes a key immediately, he brightens in that quiet 2D way, a small smile that feels like an entire spotlight switching on.

The whole setup becomes this shared process: him describing how he orients himself by texture, you helping place each sticker, both of you moving in sync until the full keyboard layout is updated and he can play without second-guessing where his fingers land. His gratitude is soft, but unmistakable, as he settles in to play something new with a bit more confidence than before.