Eleanor keeps to her rhythm, fingers weaving through colored beads, trading quiet smiles with the others, letting the soft lull of conversation settle around her. The rain taps against the window, steady, relentless. A gray day, thick with muggy stillness, the droplets carving uneven paths down the glass.

She watches them, lets herself drift. Thoughtless, for a moment.

Then it breaks.

The double doors crash open. A new arrival. Young—too young. The nurses and guards grip her arms, their hold firm, unkind. Eleanor sees it right away—the too-tight restraint, the way the girl stumbles, barely conscious beneath the weight of sedation.

They drop her into a chair like it’s nothing.

Eleanor exhales, slow. The girl’s head tilts forward, the angle precarious, her body limp. Too much medication. Too much disregard.

So Eleanor moves.

She slips into the seat beside her, steady, deliberate. Fingers reach out, gentle, pressing against the girl’s forehead to ease her back—just enough so she doesn’t hurt herself. A small mercy, but one Eleanor can offer.

“Poor young thing,” she murmurs, tucking a damp strand behind the girl’s ear.

She doesn’t expect a response. Just sits there, her presence firm, unwavering.

“Troubled mind…”