Drifting from Reach

The rain threaded itself down the glass in thin, shimmering rivers, each droplet carving a path that disappeared as quickly as it formed. Edna watched them with a soft, vacant fascination. Every tiny bead of light—reflected streetlamp, passing car, hallway glow—seemed to flicker like a memory trying to rise, then slipping away before she could catch it.

She sat very still.

Her wheelchair felt like an extension of her now, something she could no longer separate from herself. The blanket tucked around her legs was warm, though she barely noticed. What she did feel was the pull behind her forehead—the faint ache of thoughts struggling to assemble themselves, only to dissolve before they reached language.

Outside, a neon sign flickered in the dark, its glow diffused through the rain-smeared window. It reminded her—just for a breath—of a jukebox. The diner. Henry selecting a song he claimed she loved. Did she love it? Did that even happen?

Edna blinked.

A speck of light slid down the window and she followed it with her eyes. She felt a soft pang, like a missing note in a familiar song. Each raindrop looked like a tiny lantern carrying a piece of her past—faces, voices, rooms, colors—drifting downward, vanishing at the window’s edge.

“Henry?” she whispered, unsure if she meant to call him or simply say his name to keep it real.

The room answered with silence.

But for a moment—one fragile moment—she imagined him standing just behind her chair, the way he used to when he wanted to see what she was drawing. His hand on her shoulder. His breath warm against her cheek. She could almost hear him say, You’re still here, Ed.

But the reflection in the glass showed only her own thin face, dimly lit, eyes hollowed by time and confusion.

A nurse walked past the open door, her footsteps soft. Edna didn’t turn. The rain had grown heavier now, tapping insistently at the window like a thousand tiny fingers demanding entry. She wondered if the memories trapped inside the raindrops were trying to come back home.

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm lull her.

Sometimes the sound was enough to summon a spark of something—Henry’s laugh, the smell of ink from her drawing table, the warmth of a night that may or may not have happened. But tonight, the sparks were faint, drifting farther from reach.

Still, she sat there, staring out at the rainy world with a quiet kind of longing.

Each speck of light faded.

And Edna, drifting inside her own mind, felt herself fade gently with them.