Blind Instincts

The familiar, sharp scent of wood polish and dust clung to the air in my small attic room, a constant companion to the rhythmic creak of the floorboards beneath my bare feet. Sunlight, a concept I only knew as an indistinct warmth on my skin and a pure, overwhelming white blur, streamed through the window, painting the room in shades of indistinct grey. I traced the worn grooves of a 26-year-old floorboard with my fingertips, its age a silent testament to the years I had spent within these four walls, hidden from the world.
Outside, the muffled symphony of the SilverHeart Pack's annual Moon Festival began to swell, a tapestry of distant laughter, the murmur of conversations carried on the wind, and the occasional, joyous howl. It was a world I could hear, smell, and feel, but never truly see. A knot of familiar anxiety tightened in my stomach. The festival meant people, and people meant judgment, pain, and the stark reminder of my own 'uselessness.' But this year, a new vibration hummed beneath the surface, a tremor of unknown possibility that made my senses prickle with an unsettling anticipation.