he sat in the sunlit living room, his hands tracing invisible patterns on the armrest of his chair. his smile stretched wide as he watched her move about the kitchen, humming a tune that always seemed to lift the shadows in his mind. their children, a lively, mismatched group of all ages, ran through the halls, filling the house with laughter. it was a perfect day, just like every day in their home.

she turned to him, wiping her hands on a floral apron. "dinner will be ready soon," she said, her voice as warm as sunlight. he nodded, eyes bright with love. “thank you,” he murmured. "you’re incredible, you know that?"

but outside the windows, the world was not as kind. the house didn’t sit on a sprawling lawn — it stood on the cracked grounds of an institution, its walls painted in muted grays. the laughter of children was the faint echo of distant conversations. and his wife? she was nothing more than a creation of his fractured mind, a balm against the chaos within.

the staff knew him as patient 237, a man caught in the clutches of schizophrenia. they watched him from afar, sometimes smiling at the way he spoke to empty spaces or held doors open for invisible children. "he’s harmless," they’d say, though their eyes held pity.

one day, a nurse sat beside him. "who are you talking to today?" she asked gently.

“my wife,” he answered proudly, gesturing to the chair beside him. "she’s right here. can’t you see her? she’s beautiful."

the nurse nodded, not wanting to break his fragile world. "she must love you very much."

he smiled, his gaze fixed on the air. "she does. she always does. even when things get dark."

and in his mind, the house remained alive, the children forever playing, and his wife forever waiting. it was his sanctuary, his escape from a world too sharp to bear.