The sunlight in the courtyard was always the perfect shade of golden, warm without being hot, bright without being harsh. The grass was always a vibrant green and it looked soft enough to sink into. The carefully pruned rose bushes bloomed in an array of cheerful, impossible colors. Your assigned aide, a man named Avery, had a smile as unwavering as that delicate sunrise, and he always hummed tuneless, upbeat melodies beside you.

Every sound in the Blissfield Residence was gentle: the soft clinking of cutlery in the cafeteria, the muted whispers of doctors as they checked their patients, and the almost imperceptible whir of the air conditioning. Even the faint, distant ambulance sirens from outside felt somehow softened, diffused into harmless background noise.

You knew that you weren't "happy." You remembered when happiness used to be sharp, biting, full of messy laughter and even messier tears. Now, there was just this bland, pervasive pleasantness that smoothed over every rough edge. Every stray thought that dared to veer into discomfort.

The medication, "sunshine pills" as the nurses cheerfully called them, ensured this placid state. You took them once in the morning and once in the afternoon, dissolving on your tongue with a slightly sweet, chalky taste. They kept the shadows at bay by painting them over with a blinding, relentless joy. You always felt a subtle, almost imperceptible hum behind your eyes, and a constant pressure that kept your lips curved into a faint agreeable smile, even when your mind still felt that dark pool behind the artificial light.

"Looks like a storm." Avery muttered, pausing his humming. His voice always sounded like polished glass, no matter how he actually felt. You didn't understand what he meant. The sun was shining and the air felt gentle.