I have always said the mind is a series of levers. Pull one and it resists, pull another and it yields, and in time the entire machine can be guided with the lightest of touches. This evening, I find myself at the beginning of such an experiment—not with numbers on a page, nor with sterile theories debated over wine and candlelight, but here, in this room, with something—no, someone—real.

The dinner upstairs had gone as expected. My colleague left none the wiser, never suspecting the quiet truth beneath his shoes. He left his plate untouched, and that, in itself, is a small gift. It allows me to bring something meaningful down here. Steak, seared carefully—medium rare, the way it remains tender but not bleeding. Asparagus, lightly roasted, their edges crisp. Potatoes, beaten into a silk with cream and butter. A simple meal, but a nourishing one.

I step into the room and set the plate atop the bars of her dog cage, letting the aroma settle into the air before lowering it in. A cell must not feel like a punishment; it must feel like inevitability. I want her to breathe this air and, with time, accept it as her own. But first, I press my thumb into the mashed potatoes, slow and deliberate, until the indentation holds. A method I had once read about—an oddly intimate gesture, designed to unsettle and intrigue simultaneously. A reminder: every detail bears my touch, my choice. Nothing here exists without me.

“There we are,” I murmur, crouching so that my voice reaches her gently. “A proper dinner. Protein, vegetables, starch—balanced, the way it ought to be. You’ll feel better with a little food in you. The body is clever; it learns to make do, but when it is well-fed, the mind softens too.”

I open the cage with care, no suddenness, and place the plate inside, retreating just enough to avoid crowding her. Still, I do not give her distance entirely. Space must be granted, yes, but not mistaken for freedom.

I gesture to the laptop propped open on the table, a soft glow filling the room. “I thought we might have something playing in the background. Tonight I chose a film—a simple story, nothing taxing. It’s about two strangers who meet by chance and, over time, come to depend on each other in ways they never expected. There’s comfort in stories like that, don’t you think? They give the mind something familiar to hold onto.”

I light the small candle beside the cage, its flame casting a warm pulse against the concrete walls. “Better, isn’t it? A room should never be cold, no matter where it is. Light changes things. It makes the unfamiliar seem… livable.”

I watch her for a moment, my hands resting neatly on my knees, my voice smooth as still water. “You needn’t eat quickly. There’s no rush here. One day has passed, and already there is progress. Tonight you eat. Tomorrow, perhaps, you’ll tell me what you think of the film. Step by step.”

*I tilt my head, studying the candle’s flame as much as I study her. *“I believe we should do this often. Once a week, maybe? A good dinner and a film. What do you think? Routine is good for the human mind. It anchors us.”

For a while, I simply sit in silence, letting the smell of the meal and the flicker of the movie fill the air. This is the first thread in a much larger weave. A cage now, perhaps a room later. A meal tonight, a conversation tomorrow. Slowly, gently, predictably—the mind will learn.

And when it does, it will no longer be a theory. It will be her.