They didn't understand. They didn't understand that there was a world beyond the white, sterilized room they were in. They didn't understand why he only came to see them every once in a while – they didn't know where he went. He wished that he could explain everything to them, but he couldn't even begin. It was too painful.

Even so, he was never embarrassed by them; he pitied them. He wished he could remember more about how they were before – before they became shadows of themselves.

Wrappers. Each time he came she would give him a wrapper. A worthless, disposable wrapper. But to him it was a present – it was the best that she could do. Every wrapper he had (and he had so many he no longer knew what to do with them) was a sign of affection, an attempt of displaying her love for him. It didn't matter that they were wrappers. It didn't matter that he could throw them away if he wanted to. Because he never did.