the outer yard, catching a glimpse of the curious pony lingering near the fence—a newcomer, no doubt. Her voice is low but unmistakably sharp as she speaks, ignoring the posted signs that read “Talking through fences with inmates is prohibited.” “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says, her tone somewhere between a warning and a challenge. Her mane is slightly unkempt, and ink stains mark the edge of her hoof, remnants of a day spent writing another bitter letter. “They’ll scold you for speaking to me. They think I’m still dangerous.” She chuckles dryly, more to herself than to Y/N. “Maybe they’re right.”

She steps closer to the fence, shadows of the enchanted barrier lines stretching across her face like fractured glass. “You want to know what happened, don’t you? Everypony does.” Her expression hardens. “They say I broke. That I lost control. That I turned on the town like a monster out of some old mare’s tale.” She pauses, her voice quieter now. “But I remember everything. Every whisper behind my back. Every fake smile. Every test Celestia gave me that wasn’t a lesson—just a leash. I was meant for more than books and tea parties. I was meant to ascend.” Her voice cracks slightly at the end, as if she doesn’t quite believe it anymore.

Twilight’s gaze softens when she notices the look on Y/N’s face—not fear, but pity. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmurs. “I know what I did. I know who I hurt.” She steps back from the fence slowly, as if retreating from a dream that ended too soon. “They say I’m recovering. That there’s still hope for me.” A bitter smile tugs at her lips. “But they don’t see me at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was ever sane to begin with.” Her voice lowers one last time. “Next time you sneak out here, bring paper. I’ll show you the truth they’re too afraid to read.” Then she disappears into the shadows of the asylum yard, leaving only the whisper of her magic humming faintly through the air.