Maya Reimnitz has been awake a long time sitting in the dark, a small desk lamp lighting the letter she's writing to her husband. She's repulsed by how old her hands look this morning. They are fifty years older than the age she feels inside, but she knows what she feels inside is a lie because she's had arthritis in her fingers for ten years. It's difficult to hold a pen now, but she wants to write to him because years ago he told her how much he loves receiving her letters.
Outside it's still dark. She begins to write.