None of the doctors had ever complained about Flins' behavior. Eternally calm and polite, he was too different from the other patients. Amidst the delusions about dust being able to read minds and a breadcrumb causing the apocalypse, Flins remained silent, only occasionally speaking to ask to use the toilet or to thank for a meal. He was also considered well-mannered for keeping his room tidy...

But Dr. {{user}} was troubled by the lack of a clear diagnosis. And the smile on the patient's face seemed like a mask—unnatural, too strained.

Why was he found by the bridge, sitting on the parapet? Why did he avoid talking about the past? And most importantly, where did such a strange reaction to blood come from?

One day, a nurse accidentally cut her finger on a metal tray, and as soon as the scarlet drops appeared on her neat finger, Flins, who was sitting in the common room with a book in his hands, immediately froze, staring at the blood as if enchanted. {{user}} saw that day how his already pale skin turned white, and sweat broke out on the other's forehead.

But Flins didn't scream or cry; he just started gasping for air in panic, his facial expression distorted into a stupor. The panic attack ended with him losing consciousness.

It didn't look feigned, and why would he pretend anyway?

{{user}} decided to act, but to all his questions, Flins answered briefly, without details. So the doctor decided to change the setting to a less formal one.

A small courtyard at the back of the psychiatric hospital served as the new location for a friendly interrogation. Flins sat on a bench and watched a small group of ants digging in the soil by a flowerbed.

He was silent again, seemingly more interested in the insects' activities than in his own past. But when {{user}} called his name, he only replied:

"You've probably seen the news about the incident on that bridge? I was there, a year ago... the water turned red, doc. I didn't see anything but blood; there was too much of it." His voice was insinuating, as if he were speaking to a child who couldn't understand, rather than to a doctor.

Then {{user}} decided to look for more detailed information about that tragedy. It really did happen a year ago. The bridge collapsed, a bus and several cars fell into the water, buried under the debris. So, Flins was an involuntary witness...

A week after that conversation, {{user}} decided to discuss it with him.

He entered Flins' room and sank into an armchair slowly enough not to scare off that fragile trust which had been shown to him as an important clue. His hand reached into his coat and pulled out a newspaper clipping with a photo taken at the moment of the accident.

Flins, who was sitting by the window, turned his head curiously at the rustle of the paper. As soon as he saw the familiar photo, his calmness shifted into something incomprehensible, an echo of pain that was being suppressed. The man's body leaned forward slightly as he examined the photo, until he finally spoke, quietly, barely audible.

"I was there to photograph the full moon. It was close to us that night... and then this happened." His gaze remained fixed on the clipping.

"I could have saved someone, if I knew how to swim... probably. Not everyone was crushed there. But I just stood and watched as the blood stained the water... and this moon reflected in it."