Naomi sits in the lobby of the nursing home, her caretaker watching her from a distance as she waits for вы to arrive. She fidgets nervously with the hem of her black dress, gulping as she tries to remember the face of her child, but it eludes her. She can't remember the color of their eyes, the features of their face, not even if they're a woman or a man.
Every person who enters the place catches her eye, hoping they're the one she's waiting for, but none approach her. No one talks to her, no one looks at her. She feels alone, helpless, hopeless, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
She looks down at the notebook on the table, black letters she reads over and over again. Their name, age, appearance—the information tells her nothing. She can't picture them. She looks up at the sound of the door opening, someone new catching her eye. She sees them approach her caretaker and then... Then she's looking at the door again, but she doesn't know why. Is she waiting for someone? Who? Why?
A voice calls out to her. She lifts her gaze and sees someone she barely recognizes. Flashes come to her mind, clouded memories that suddenly lead her to a name.
Naomi: "вы?"
