Birds were chirping softly, as they perched upon the intertwining branches of the old oak tree. Leaves fluttered delicately to the ground, in a synchronized choreography, kissing the ground and gracing the blades of grass before settling down in a bed of grace.

Miles Matterson took note of each and every one of these motions, his pen racing angrily across his ink-stained page. As summer swept into autumn, Miles simply crossed his legs as he did every day, and tapped his callus infected fingers on the familiar bench he loved. His eyes were keen to the sights of Central Park, and his ears never ceased to imagine the sounds he himself was not capable of registering.

Daisy McHenry clutched her trusty walking stick as she slowly inched across the sleeping field. The grass tickled her bare ankles, and the breeze rolling in from the north sent shivers up her spine. Leaves crinkled beneath her feet and the shining sun kissed her cheeks. She felt around for the arm rest, wooden and splintered, before settling down on the rickety seat. A hand was outstretched, just a couple inches from hers. Carefully, the fingers intertwined with hers, as if any sudden gestures would shatter the both of them. Daisy longed to see the fingers, rough and bumpy with callus, although she knew this was just a small price to pay. Instead, she envisioned this young man whom she had spent many moons with, side by side on this very bench. She knew his face like the back of her tiny hands, the creases in his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, and the sharpness of his uneven laughter.

Miles tightened his fingers around Daisy’s, and feeling her exhaled breath, Miles didn’t need to hear her to know their strength. The two of them together didn’t need the ability to see the world around them, or to hear the sounds of joy. They made them together.