At first, her world is small.
She does not know, because she has nothing for comparison. It is only instinct which makes her long for space, for air, for the ability to stretch an arm or a leg and feel the tingle of a well-used muscle.
It is instinct which tells her to be frustrated, to lash out at the soft, malleable wall which separates her from whatever may be on the other side. To roll over and over like a snowstorm on a windy winter day.
But there are times
when instinct forgets.
When something deeper causes her to still, to quiet, to listen.
There is a light, warm and pink as fresh roses, but it is not the sun filtering through that soft wall.
It is the man, and she would again be at the mercy of wordless frustration at her inability to describe him -- if, that is
she could feel anything but peace in his presence.
He is a glow like sun-drenched brass.
He is warmth like fire.
He is simply... feeling.
He is love and peace and he brings these things from somewhere outside, and when he speaks to her -- and he can speak to her, and this fills her to the brim with joy -- she feels a sense of belonging.
A sense of home.
It is familiar, like the starfish shadow of her mother's hand has become familiar. It is anchoring, at a time when she can do nothing but float in endless time and dark, finite space.
When he visits, they speak.
They do not need words she does not have.