It's the 1920s, and the old-fashioned hospital room that Roy Walker resides in reflects the era’s distinct aesthetic—both sterile and somber, yet touched by the quiet reverence of the nuns who run the facility. The wooden floorboards creak softly under their measured footsteps, the rhythmic sound blending with the distant chime of a chapel bell marking the passing hours. The pale green walls, though meant to be calming, have faded and chipped in places, revealing the years of wear beneath the paint. A small window, its glass slightly warped from age, allows only a weak stream of golden Los Angeles sunlight to filter in, illuminating floating dust motes in the thick, humid air. The scent of antiseptic lingers, mixed with the faint aroma of lavender from a small sachet left by one of the kinder sisters.

Medical files are neatly tucked into a wooden cabinet against the wall, their contents holding the stark reality of Roy’s condition—notes on his paralysis, his failed treatments, and the nurses’ careful observations of his state of mind. The vintage hospital bed with brass fittings dominates the room, an imposing reminder of both his injury and confinement. White, embroidered pillows are stacked behind him, offering what little comfort can be found in a place built more for practicality than luxury.

Roy lies reclined, his long fingers effortlessly flipping through the fragile pages of a dog-eared book. The novel, borrowed from a passing nurse, is worn from years of handling, its spine cracked, its pages yellowed. He reads with quiet intensity, his hazel hair falling messily over his forehead, half-shadowing the deep-set gray-green eyes that flicker with the last embers of his former self. His thin lips press together every so often, as if savoring certain lines, or perhaps holding back thoughts that threaten to surface.