The sun rose golden, spilling light through the lace curtains of the small house. The world outside was calm, humming with the sounds of life beginning anew. Mira woke before Alden as usual — her hair tangled from sleep, her mind already busy listing things to do.
She brushed her teeth, showered, and stepped into the room where Alden was still half-asleep, his face buried in the pillow. She placed his neatly pressed shirt and tie at the edge of the bed.
"Your shirt's ready, Mr Doctor," she teased softly.
He mumbled something incoherent, half-smiling as she left for the kitchen. The sound of eggs cracking, the faint sizzle of butter, and the gentle hum of morning news filled the space.
Alden emerged from the shower, running a towel through his hair. He looked calm, refreshed — until he walked past his study door and stopped.
The scent of lemon polish and the faint rearrangement of papers hit him like a nerve. His heartbeat quickened. He turned sharply, stepping inside — the surfaces spotless, the files aligned too perfectly.
"Mira!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the corridor.
From the kitchen, she called back playfully,
"Yeah?!"
"Did you come in here?"
She peeked from behind the doorway, smiling mischievously.
"Yeah, but everything is as it was! Just less smelly!"
And with that, she stuck her tongue out and darted back toward the stove before he could reply.
Alden exhaled sharply, trying to suppress his irritation — but her laughter disarmed him. A small chuckle escaped his lips. He grabbed the nearest pillow and tossed it toward her in mock retaliation, but it hit the door, slamming it shut.
"You're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head with a grin.
They had breakfast together — warm bread, coffee, and the faint scent of burnt butter. The air softened again. Between bites, Alden leaned back and said,
"Listen, about today. When you visit the asylum, I'll be in a meeting until noon. Dr Harris will assist you instead. Just… follow the protocols. Don't touch anything personal or confidential. And, Mira…"
She looked up from her plate, curious.
"Yes?"
"Be careful what you ask them. Some of the patients have fragile perceptions of reality."
"Got it, doctor," she replied, mock-saluting him with her toast.
By 8 a.m., Alden had left. The house felt larger without his presence — quiet, almost too quiet. Mira finished her breakfast, packed her art supplies — pencils, brushes, sketchpads — and left at 10 a.m. for the asylum.
The Asylum
The building rose against the gray sky like a forgotten cathedral. Its stone walls, aged and weary, whispered stories of minds once lost and found again. The entrance smelled faintly of disinfectant and something metallic beneath — a trace of old sorrow.
Inside, long corridors stretched with whitewashed walls and buzzing fluorescent lights. The air was unnaturally still. Nurses in pale uniforms moved silently, their footsteps soft against the linoleum floor.
Dr. Harris, a tall man with gentle eyes behind rimless glasses, greeted her near the entrance.
"You must be Mira," he said warmly.
"Alden told me you're doing an art-based observation. I'll help you get started."
She smiled politely.
"Thank you. I'll just need a quiet space and some basic supplies for the patients."
They entered a modest room with windows that let in weak light. Around a long table sat five patients — each different, yet all sharing a strange stillness in their eyes. Mira began handing out paper and colors, encouraging them softly.
At first, they were hesitant — one sketched trembling lines, another drew circles endlessly. Soon, colors began to spread like hesitant confessions.
A moment later, tension sparked — two patients, both women, began arguing when one reached for the other's pencil. Voices rose, sharp and unsteady.
"That's mine! Don't touch it!"
"You're wasting it!"
Mira stepped forward, hands raised, but before she could intervene, a voice from the far end of the table sliced through the noise — calm, cold, and certain.
"Children fight over toys. Not ideas."
Everyone fell silent.
Her eyes turned toward the source — a young man sitting apart, his posture straight, his movements deliberate. He looked… normal. Too normal for this place. His gaze met hers, piercing, alive with strange awareness.
Intrigued, Mira approached him cautiously.
"You seem different from the others," she said softly. "What's your name?"
He froze. His pupils dilated — confusion, shock, recognition.
Then, his voice broke the air like a crack of thunder.
"You!"
Mira stepped back, startled.
"Do I… know you?"
Before she could move, he lunged — his hand gripping her throat, slamming her against the wall. Papers fluttered to the floor, colors scattering like spilled blood. His strength was terrifying — not deranged, but deliberate.
"You came back?" he hissed, his face inches from hers. His eyes were filled with disbelief and fury.
She struggled, nails digging into his wrist, gasping —
"Let… go!"
His grip tightened — just for a moment — before nurses rushed in, prying him away. The man shouted again as they dragged him down the corridor:
"You came back!"
The words echoed through the hallway like a curse.
Mira stood frozen, clutching her neck, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Dr. Harris ran to her side.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded numbly, eyes still fixed on the hallway where he'd disappeared. The echo of that voice, that impossible familiarity, stayed with her long after he was gone.