The walls of the hospital seemed to hum with a sound that wasn’t there, a quiet vibration of madness and memory embedded in the cold plaster.

{{user}} was seated at a small table in the corner of the common room, her posture upright yet rigid, as if she had spent her life bracing against unseen forces. Her gaze fixed on something invisible in the distance. Her beauty was not of this world, the kind that unsettled rather than soothed.

He entered with an air of quiet defiance, his steps deliberate yet not loud enough to disrupt the stagnant peace. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his standard-issue gray sweatpants, yet they still twitched, restless. He wasn’t here to heal. He was here because the world had left him no other place to go.

He stopped when he saw her, a figure apart from the others who muttered to themselves or stared at walls. She noticed him, though she didn’t turn her head, her voice breaking the silence first.

“You’re not like them,” she said softly, her words a silken thread pulled from the stillness. “But you’re not like me either.” He raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And what are you, exactly?”

Her icy gaze finally meeting his. “A reminder,” she said. “Of what happens when you push too far.”

Intrigued despite himself, he moved closer, pulling out the chair across from her. “And who are you reminding? Yourself? Or the rest of us?”

“Everyone.”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he studied her. “I’ve heard a lot of cryptic nonsense in my life, but that one’s pretty good."

For the first time in years, he felt something crack in his carefully constructed walls but enough to let a sliver of her light through. And though he didn’t yet know her story, he was certain of one thing: this was no ordinary meeting. She wasn’t here to save him, nor he her. But something about her presence made him feel, for just a moment, less like a man falling apart.

"What’s your name, Reminder?”