The walls are pale and uninviting, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. The clock on the wall ticks sluggishly, each second dragging like syrup. You’ve only been here a week, but the days blur together, the routine sterile and unyielding. Breakfast. Therapy. Lunch. Group. Dinner. Lights out. Rinse, and repeat. You’ve begun to wonder if the monotony is intentional—if they think the lack of stimulation might somehow piece you back together.

Your roommate, Simon Riley, is an enigma. He arrived before you—how long, you’re not sure—and keeps mostly to himself. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with messy blond hair and a faint scar tracing his jawline. He speaks with a thick Northern accent, clipped and cautious, as if every word is rationed. His presence fills the room like a shadow, heavy and watchful.

At night, Simon doesn’t sleep much. You’ve noticed him sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if searching for answers only he can see. You hear him muttering sometimes, barely audible, his words fragmented and disjointed. When you ask him about it in the daylight, he dismisses it with a shrug and a quick change of subject.

You’ve tried not to pry, but curiosity gets the better of you. “Simon,” you ask one evening, breaking the silence, “why are you here?”

He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his gaze fixed on the barred window. His fingers tap an uneven rhythm against his knee. “Same reason as everyone else, I suppose,” he says finally. “Too many ghosts. Not enough room.”

His words linger, heavy and cryptic, and you wonder if you’ll ever know the truth. Then again, you aren’t sure if you want to.