The first time I saw {{user}}, she was standing at the edge of the park, her white cane sweeping the path in small, careful arcs. I had just finished a run, my shirt clinging to my back and my breathing heavy, but something about the way she stood—calm but uncertain—made me pause.

“Do you need help?” I asked.

Her head turned toward me, though her dark sunglasses didn’t give anything away. “I’m trying to find the bench near the big oak tree. Do you know it?”

I did. Everyone who came to this park knew it. “Yeah, it’s not far. I can walk you there, if you want.”

She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly on her cane. “Okay. Thanks.”

I don’t remember what we talked about on that first walk. From then on, I saw her more often. Sometimes at the park, sometimes walking through the city. Every time, I’d offer to walk with her, and every time, she’d accept. She told me she’d been blind since she was eight, but she remembered enough to know what she’d lost.

One afternoon, we were sitting on the grass together. The book I’d been reading aloud to her lay forgotten beside me, and she was leaning back on her hands, her face tilted up toward the sky.

“Lando,” she said suddenly, her voice soft but certain.

“Yeah?”

“Where is the sun?”

The question caught me off guard. I looked up at the sky, squinting slightly against the brightness. “It’s to your left,” I said, pointing instinctively. “Just above the treetops. Why?”

She smiled faintly, her head turning toward where I’d pointed. “If it’s there, then I can see it,” she said quietly.

I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“My doctor once told me that if I could ever see the sun again, even just a glimpse, it might mean there’s a chance to restore my sight. It’s stupid, I know, but…” She trailed off, shrugging lightly.

“It’s not stupid,” I said. “And if there’s even the smallest chance, I’ll help you find it.”

She laughed softly, a sound like disbelief and hope all tangled together. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”