He entered the room and all of a sudden nothing made sense. Where was he?
Nothing seemed familiar to his eyes but to his touch, every curve, edge and fabric in the room felt as though an extension of his own fingers. His eyes raced across the room, from corner to corner, as he walked towards the bed. Despite being made, there were wrinkles in the blankets. He ran his hand across them, not trying to flatten them but remember if the wrinkles were his. The fabric, too, felt familiar but looked distant.
He turned towards the door, slowly, and saw a young, stout woman with long dark hair thrown messily to one side. She smiled at him and walked towards him quietly with a patient pace. She touched his shoulder and then reached for his hand.
His eyes could not remember her, but his hand knew her touch.