Giulia grabs the suitcase roughly, with anger.
"I've given you everything I have, Tommaso. Now the only one who can help you is yourself. Lucia, let's go. Now!" My daughter looks at me in terror. I think I've hit her, but everything is so confusing. The bitter taste fills my mouth.

She runs away with her mother without looking back, the front door slams loudly. They're gone.

Salty drops appear at the corners of my useless eyes. I need a dose, now.

But as soon as I move, I bump into my furniture, trip over rugs, and barely reach the shelf where our photo hangs.

I grab the picture, hold it to my nose to see them smiling, happy, perhaps for one last time. Retinitis pigmentosa is degenerative, unforgiving.

The ophthalmologist who can't see: it would be comical, if I weren't on the brink of tragedy. I keep the bag in a hidden place. The crystals are smooth, cold. I take too many, without counting them. I don't care, I place them under my tongue.

A bitter taste, like the absinthe we drank at our medical school parties. Back then, the word Fentanyl was just one of many in the pharmacology textbook.
Soon, the pain fades, the tears stop, their departure is far away, as if it had happened to someone else.

The darkness that takes away my vision becomes a warm, black blanket, where I love to sink.

I'm sitting on a bench, excited, the sun warms my face.

Amid the chatter of the kids coming out of school, I recognize her voice. Her loud, warm, accelerated laughter. Only she laughs like this, since she was born.

I know the direction she'll take: I grab my white cane and follow her, orienting myself with the sounds of the city.

The same scent as Giulia. The traffic slows, stops. I catch up with her at the traffic light.

"Lucia."

I say it softly, pouring all the love I can in that single word.

The vibration of her body turning.

"Dad?" A long silence. "It can't be. Is that really you?"

"Your drugs?" The question comes suddenly, as soon as we sit down at the bar. I ordered a black coffee; it helps me remember to never make the same mistake again.

"I'm clean, Lucia. The community helped me a lot. It took a long time, but I got over it."

"You never called us. To me, you were dead." An irritated tone, very close to tears.

"I wasn't ready to meet you yet. My disease is incurable, but I'm alive. I helped myself, just like she said when you left."

"You've gone blind." I sense her staring at my sunglasses, my cane.

"Not really. I started a company with a former colleague. It's called ‘Third Eye’: subcutaneous sensors, neurological processors, enhanced hearing and smell. I can't see, but I can hear. I'm my own guinea pig, I hope we can soon help other people like me."
I sense her scepticism from small signs she doesn't even notice. The way she rubs her hands, her rapid breathing, the smell of discomfort.

"And what do you want from me?"
Tears start to fall, just like that night. At least, that's what eyes are for.
"That you can give me a second chance."