It’s him.
She walked forward and sat on the far edge of the bench.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Ilia startled like he hadn’t expected anyone to come close. He turned his head toward her voice.
“H-Hello,” he said, hesitant. “Are you… talking to me?”
Katia blinked, genuinely confused.
“Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
That made him pause.
Then his mouth lifted into a small smile, half-surprised, half-sad.
“People don’t usually sit next to me,” he admitted. “Especially not… kids.”
“Why not?”
He gave a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like a child’s laugh at all.
“Because it’s awkward,” he said. “Because they don’t know what to say. Because my father’s security guy stares at them like they might steal something. Because…” He hesitated. “Because I’m blind.”
Katia studied him for a long second.
Then she said, matter-of-fact, “So?”
Ilia blinked behind his glasses, thrown off.
“So?”
“Blind isn’t a monster,” she said. “It’s just… not seeing. Right now.”
That last part—right now—made his smile vanish.
“What do you mean, ‘right now’?”
Katia tilted her head as if listening to a sound only she could hear.
“I think I can help you,” she said.
Ilia went still.
A silence filled the space between them—heavy, careful, dangerous.
He’d heard promises before.
Doctors had used hopeful words in front of cameras.
Specialists had said “breakthrough” and “innovative” and “experimental.” His father had paid for flights, private clinics, expensive scans, new opinions, second opinions, third opinions.
