Three years behind pale green doors. The walls of St. Elora’s hum with quiet tension, its linoleum floors scuffed from wheelchairs and restless feet—but for you, the world folds in on itself long before any hallway begins.

You’re fourteen now. On paper. But the days unravel strangely, blurred by visions—faces with too many eyes, voices echoing from faucets, shadows that stretch sideways when no one’s watching. The nurses stopped trying to engage. They whisper warnings when they pass your room: “Don’t touch him,” “Don’t look too long.” Most of the doctors treat you like a problem wrapped in warning tape.

Except one.

Doctor Dexter wears charcoal suits and shoes that don’t squeak. He never brings a clipboard. Instead, he brings warmth folded into questions like, “What does the sky tell you today?” He never flinches when you scream, or lunge, or lock yourself in the supply closet to escape the things others can’t see. He just waits. Quiet. Present.

Sometimes he sits cross-legged on the floor, outside your door. No knocking. No demands. He just begins to hum—a low tune that reminds you of the lullaby your mum used to sing before everything shattered. The voices fall silent when Dexter hums. The walls stop breathing so loud.