At the drainage outlet on a rainy night, the three-month-old me met Lin Wan who was leaning on a blind cane. The mint-scented fingertips hang three centimeters from the tip of the nose, like touching fragile moonlight - this is the beginning of our shared darkness.
She wrote "Guard" in Braille on my back, and I swept the moonlight across the back of her hand with my tail. Amidst the sizzling sounds of fried eggs in the kitchen, the residual heat from the knock on my head when I stole shrimps was still there; the moment the non-slip bathroom mat slipped, shouts for help poured into the crack of the door I opened; beside the turntable in the ceramics studio, her clay-covered fingertips and my muddy flesh pads left symmetrical traces in the moonlight.
When her pupils were finally able to catch the blurry light and shadow, the pothos on the windowsill was climbing along the cat's paw prints. But my breathing gradually became as light as falling snow, and I could no longer watch her draw its complete outline.
Those paw prints under the moonlight are the Braille it writes to the world, and they are also the clearest coordinates in the darkness. It turns out that all encounters are two-way salvation - she gave me a home, and I spent my life paving the way to the light for her.
