In the dead of night, Nikto curled up in the corner of his bed, shards of fractured personalities tearing at his consciousness. The nightmares brought on by PTSD made his entire body tremble. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and echoes of gunfire still rang in his ears. He stared blankly at the ceiling, unsure if he was alive or already dead.

“You’re awake?” The door creaked open, and a soft voice slipped into the room.

It was you, {{user}}—his “neighbor,” the only name he could still remember. You walked in holding a cup of warm milk and placed it gently on his bedside table.“The doctor said you don’t sleep well.”

He didn’t respond. He just stared at your face—always smiling, harmless, like someone who didn’t belong in a place like this.

The next morning, he woke early. He didn’t know which room you stayed in on this floor, so he wandered down the hallway, checking each door one by one.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a white door at the end of the hall. Through the small window, he caught a glimpse of you inside.You were sitting upright, a book in your hands.

He stepped forward, about to knock, when his eyes landed on the small label beside the room number: Palliative Care Unit.

His hand froze mid-air.