I hammered on the door, feeling the rain run down my sleeves, bruising my knuckles against the ancient wood. At last, oh, at last the door opened. I felt warmth flow out over me, tasted that hot, dry taste, like burning dust that cakes the shelves in an old library.

“Oh God, thank you, thank you,” I gasped, “there’s been an accident. The car…it crashed…I …I can’t see.” I took a deep breath. “They were taking me to the hospital, you see, to …my eyes…I had a…problem…a year ago…a fire. It blinded me. I’m better, you understand, almost better. We crashed…I – I think they’re dead… I can’t see…”

The sound I remember from childhood: fingers-on-lips, a gentle sigh, and a calm, masculine voice. “Calm yourself. Come inside.” The voice was soft, but accentuated by the heavy, precise tone of Eastern Europe. There was a smile in his tone. Ironic. It made me think, that voice, think of a tall, melancholy man, in his mid thirties. A man who had travelled, who had seen things. He led me inside, my feet testing each step.

“Let me shut the door,” he said. I heard the door creak shut, felt the chill wind cease. “My name is Conrad. You are…?”

I told him that my name was Clara, not daring to utter my full name. I heard him repeat it a few times, but his voice faded, and was left to the wind. My hands groped for contact. I called to him, reminded him that I could not see.

“I’m here,” he whispered, and he took my hands in his. I felt his fingers play across my palms and I shivered. “Clara, there is blood on your hands.”

“Blood?” I lifted my hands level with my eyes, a futile effort. “Oh. I wanted to see if the driver was still alive. I checked his pulse. That was it.” I smiled.

“Come with me.” Forward; my hands in his. Stairs. It’s hard to go up and down stairs when you can’t look at your feet. Try it. He took me through a doorway, a spare bedroom I suppose it must have been, showed me to a bathroom, gave me a towel and some fresh clothes. I waited until he had gone, hearing the door click shut and no longer hearing his breath. I felt my way into the bathroom. The clothes were a man’s clothes: a cotton shirt, pressed trousers, a woollen jumper, and a pair of slippers which smelled old, but I was warm and dry. I felt safe.