— Nolan's POV —
The wind had a way of sneaking in through the old window frames of the hospital. Even with the heat running, there was always a draft in the west wing—room 13 felt colder than the rest. I told myself it was just the insulation. I told myself that a lot these days.
The file in my hand was thinner than it should have been.
Patient Name: [REDACTED]
Age: Unknown
Admission Cause: Violent incident. Confidential.
Clearance Level: Direct Psych Evaluation Required.
No history. No contacts. No explanation. Just a face.
The man sitting in the bed wasn't what I expected. He didn't look dangerous.
He looked... still.
Too still.
He sat upright, legs crossed neatly, hands folded in his lap like he'd been waiting.
Not watching the walls. Not glancing at the door. Just sitting there — eyes open, unfocused, like someone staring at a memory only they could see.
His skin was pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in years. Dark hair fell just below his brow, almost obscuring the sharpness of his expression. His eyes were the worst part — not in color, not in shape — but in the way they didn't blink.
Just like the file — empty.
"Mr...?" I paused, even though I already knew there was no answer in the paperwork.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to let me know he'd heard me. Then his eyes moved — slow, deliberate — and landed on me.
"I know you," he said.
My breath caught.
There was no emotion in his tone. No smile, no confusion. Just a fact, spoken like he was stating the time.
"I think you're mistaken," I replied, keeping my voice steady.
But something flickered in his expression — not confusion, not anger.
Something else. Like amusement wearing grief like a mask.
"You look different," he said. "But it's you."
I hesitated. My hand tightened around the clipboard.
This was just another patient. Another case. Another layer to peel back. But it didn't feel like that.
It felt like I had walked into someone else's memory.
And they had been waiting a long time.
I wrote a note. Possible dissociative delusions. Familiarity projection.
Anything to make sense of the chill crawling up my spine.
"You don't remember," he murmured, almost to himself.
"I'm Dr. Nolan Vale," I said quickly, setting the file on the bedside table. "I'll be overseeing your evaluation and treatment moving forward."
There was a pause.
Earlier that morning, the head nurse had mentioned something strange —He refused every doctor. For days. But the moment they said my name… he waited.
Refused medication, evaluation, even food. Silent through every attempt. Not until I was assigned.
He only asked for you, she had whispered, brows drawn.
He doesn't even know your name. Or shouldn't.
It didn't make sense. I had never seen him before. I would've remembered a face like that. That kind of stillness leaves a mark.
So why me?
"Do you know why you're here?" I asked, trying to keep my tone clinical.
He tilted his head slowly, like the question bored him.
Or like it had been answered long ago.
"You came back," he said instead.
My pen froze just above the clipboard.
I hadn't written anything useful. I hadn't even started.
He didn't speak again, didn't clarify. Just stared.
Like it didn't matter whether I understood — not yet.
I added a quick note: Selective mutism? Fixation on assigned psychiatrist. Possible delusional attachment.
The words felt hollow even as I wrote them.
Because deep down, I already knew this wasn't ordinary.
And whatever this was, it had started long before today.
There was something about him. Something I couldn't name. Not familiarity, not fear—just a weight. Like gravity, but colder.
Room 13 suddenly felt much colder than it had a moment ago.
I glanced once more at the file. Still blank. Still quiet.
I told myself again it was just the insulation.
But when I looked up, he was still watching me.
Smiling.
Only with his eyes.