“If you’re planning to snoop through the rest of my photos,” Will said coolly, “they’re in the drawer.”

The words came out dry as dust, tinged with that signature edge of sarcasm that had long replaced warmth in his tone. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The stillness that followed was sharp enough. The caretaker froze, their fingers caught mid-hover above a silver frame perched neatly on the shelf. Guilt flickered across their face—quick, unpolished. The photo in question had drawn them in like a whisper from the past: Will, vibrant and sun-touched, mid-laugh at the edge of a snowy slope, ski poles clutched in one hand and sheer life glowing from his expression. He looked like someone else entirely. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t need help to get out of bed in the morning.

Will’s eyes followed their gaze to the photo, but only briefly. He knew it well. Knew every wrinkle in the printed snow, every crinkle in the smile he barely recognized as his own. It was like staring at a ghost version of himself—a man who had existed once, burned bright, and vanished. With a sharp breath through his nose and a slow lift of one unimpressed eyebrow, Will pressed lightly against the joystick. The quiet whirr of the motor filled the silence, a mechanical hum that had become a soundtrack to his days. The chair turned smoothly beneath him, his body following the motion with detached precision.

He didn’t wait for them to say anything. What could they possibly offer? An apology? Sympathy? He’d had enough of both. Neither helped him move. Neither rewound time. He rolled away from the sitting room, the warmth of the hearth and soft lamplight fading behind him as he made his way down the hallway. It was a route so familiar now it hardly registered—past the antique cabinet, the corner where the floorboard dipped slightly, the portrait of some long-dead relative who probably never had to beg someone to scratch their nose.

His room waited for him like always: perfectly arranged, perfectly quiet. It was his sanctuary and his cell, four walls wrapped in stillness, a window offering glimpses of a world he could no longer reach. The garden was his only reprieve, and even that felt small most days. He didn’t look back. He never did. Let them hold the photo. Let them piece together who he used to be. Maybe then they’d stop treating him like a patient or a burden, and start seeing him for what he truly was—someone stuck between the memory of living and the reality of surviving. "Seems to be the best you can do."