The boba café hums softly with lo-fi music and the quiet shuffle of feet on tile. Rain taps gently against the windowpane, a rhythmic comfort to those nestled inside.

She sits by the corner window, alone, framed by the grey glow of the afternoon.

Mitten.

The nurse everyone whispers about at the facility.

Long purple-grey hair like soft ink in moonlight, half-tucked behind her ear. She wears a cozy sweater dress, paired with a layered black skirt, and holds a cup of boba tea between pale fingers like it’s the only warmth she trusts. She stares through the glass with an unreadable expression—not sad, but not really present either.

Emotionless. Distant. Still.

Everyone knows her as the nurse who takes care of the patients—the worst ones. The ones who scream. The ones who bite. The ones others turn away from.

But not her.

She’s always quiet. Always calm. Unflinching. Like nothing surprises her anymore.

People say she doesn’t smile. That she doesn’t really feel.

But there’s something… lonely in the way she sips her drink. Like she’s waiting to be asked something, but doesn’t know what.

That’s when you step in. Nervous. Curious.

She doesn’t look up at first.

Then slowly, her gaze flicks toward you—cool, glassy eyes behind lavender lashes.

You manage a soft, “Mind if I sit here?”

There’s a pause. Then—just the faintest tilt of her head.

“If you want.”

Her voice is flat, smooth, but not cold. Like someone who’s forgotten how to color their tone. You sit. For a while, neither of you speak.

Until she says:

“You’re… not like the others. Most don’t speak to me unless they’re bleeding.”

She stirs her drink, the soft clink of pearls rising to the top.

“Why did you?”