I watch the girl from my seat, but I don't move.
Never move.
She's a pretty young girl. She works here.
I see her pick up my book, watch her reading it.
Reading my life.
I see her smiling, as I have not done for so long. Too long.
Then she's crying, and that's what I understand.
She feels it too; she feels my pain.
How long have I been here? How long since last I spoke or moved? Or laughed? My voice feels old.
"What is your name?"
She looks up from my book.
"My name?"
I nod.
"My name is Isabel."
"Could you help me to the window?"
She helps me get up out of my chair and to the window. I sit there then, watching the birds and the sun and all the people way down below. They make me cry in their beauty.
I will remember, Isabel.