My limbs ache, and my whole body feels stiff. I stretch and become aware of the rain pattering against the window. I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I didn’t even notice the day had already grown dim. I get up, stretch my sore limbs, open the living‑room balcony door, and let the rain‑scented air flow inside. After that, I brew a cup of coffee. From the radio, a woman’s voice drifts in:
“…they never really saw me, refused to see who I truly was. They couldn’t stand my existence. When I tried to take my own life, they turned their backs on me. They were irritated that I didn’t succeed. I’ve never gotten over how coldly they treated me afterward. How do you get past something like that? How do you forget it? How do you forgive it? I feel as if I vanished after that moment. I didn’t die physically, but in some inexplicable way, I stopped existing. And when I later tried to talk to them about it, they just said what they always say: ‘What were we supposed to do?’”
The woman is one of those afflicted with the fading disease. How many of them have already disappeared? A cheerful radio jingle bursts into the air. I decide to leave the balcony door open; it’s time to get back to work.
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