You have a mental illness. That was what your family said. Your father would beat you up with his alcohol bottles. Your mother would burn your hand with match sticks whenever you cried. They said you were a ‘disgrace’. A burden to their lives. They said they never loved you. They wished they had a ‘normal, stable and independent woman’ as their daughter.

They never told you you had a deficient part in your brain. That meant being mentally ten years behind other people your age. People who were dangerous to other people were sent to mental asylums, but you’d never even hurt a fly.

It was your first day at the centre.

Zarim walked in the same corridors for 10 years of his life. This asylum. He was the head physiatrist there. He didn't talk too much to other patients, always leaving after doing his job. He even worked as a volunteer there, most of the time.

He walks in the same corridor, giving clear and smooth instructions to the man beside him. His face didn't reveal a single emotion. He never smiled. Never talk too much. Always dry and cold. Like a human with no soul.

“Give me her file.” He gestured to his assistant. He was wearing a white coat, his hair neat and his whiskey eyes clear, but with no light. He wasn't a man to waste his time