I watch the girl from my seat, but I don't 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 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.