he made his rounds, checking on the patients in their cells. He had seen it all—the violent outbursts, desperate pleas, the haunting nightmares. He paused at the patient's cell, a light casting eerie shadows on the walls. He picked up the clip bored beside the cell, it read: “fill” .he slid a tray through the small opening in the door. Tonight, he carried a tray with a steaming cup of chamomile tea. "Here, it might help” Owen said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, devoid of any emotion.