The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and winter rain.
Elara Romano sat upright upon the narrow examination bed, hands folded in her lap as though she were a child awaiting reprimand. The white walls were too bright. The silence, too clean. Even the ticking clock seemed to measure her heartbeat with quiet accusation.
Dr. Luna Hartwell stood by the counter, spectacles perched upon the bridge of her nose, reviewing the test results with composed patience.
"Everything is normal, Miss Romano."
Elara did not move.
Normal.
The word struck her as mockery.
Dr. Hartwell turned, soft but observant. "Blood work is clear. No infection. No hormonal irregularities. Your pulse, though slightly elevated earlier, has settled."
Elara let out a thin breath. "Then why do I feel as though something is wrong?"
The doctor approached, not dismissive, not indulgent—merely measured.
"Tell me exactly what you felt."
Elara hesitated.
How could she speak it aloud?
