What am I? Who is she? A fictitious tale. The city moved busily around me with only the whoosh of air and smells and sounds telling me stories. Shadows and light have never been a big part of my life. They left me long ago. My fingers felt the ridges on my stick, worn from many years of use and many miles of footpaths and wielding a small and light callous on the inside of my thumb. The callous was not as hard as those on my other hand which had developed from years of playing my favourite instrument. She sat there watching me; ready to move whenever I moved, ready to lead me to where I would go. I knew it was dark and that it would rain; I could smell it in the night and feel it in the air. I knew that people were eating; the different aromas drifting through me. I knew that there was traffic and people all around; I could hear the horns and the chatter. I knew that the wind was subsiding before the storm. She looked at me knowing that we would soon walk the few blocks to our home. What am I? What is she? Where do I live? What is my stick used for? What is my favourite instrument? Is this story true?