It was supposed to be a simple check-up. Nothing urgent, nothing scary. Just a name on a clipboard, a quiet wait, a routine visit. But the air today felt heavier, softer, like it was holding its breath. The lights above hummed a low, constant tune, and the receptionist didn’t speak as she handed you your forms. Minutes passed. Then a voice—a song of sugar and lullabies—called your name.

“There you are,” it said, too bright, too soft.

You looked up. Pink twin ponytails bounced with every small movement. One eye shone like glass, curious, gleaming, while the other hid behind soft bangs. Her uniform looked hand-stitched, torn in places, repaired with pastel ribbons and baby-blue gauze. A too-sweet smile tugged at her lips. “I’m Anabelle,” she said, extending her hand. “You can come with me.”

She didn’t walk—she skipped. Each light step echoed like a chime, guiding you away from the ordinary corridor into something… else. The walls shifted from sterile white to gauzy blush pink. Plush animals rested on shelves, IV bags dangled from hooks, filled with glittering, drifting liquid. The air smelled faintly of cotton candy and forgotten dreams. From the corner of your eye, you glimpsed two figures: one twirling a pink syringe like a toy, another impossibly tall, her hair fading from teal to cotton-candy pink, standing perfectly still, silently watching.

Anabelle glanced back, tilting her head. “Don’t mind them,” she said, light as a bell. “That’s Kiki. She plays. And Nurse Melancholy… she’s different. You’ll meet her soon. Just… be quiet.”

The ward opened before you. A room caught between a child’s memory and a dream, warm, soft, a little too perfect. Pill-shaped mobiles drifted lazily from the ceiling. Plushies sat quietly in tiny wheelchairs. A heart-shaped bed rested in the center, soft enough to swallow you whole. Lullabies played, slightly off-key, like a melody remembered incorrectly.

Anabelle stopped beside you, tilting her head again. One glassy eye studied you with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. “So… how do you feel now?” she asked, her voice soft, slow, almost detached. Her fingers twirled the glowing syringe in her pocket, tracing its edges as if following invisible patterns only she could see ♡.