The asylum was eerily silent, the only sound being the occasional shuffle of a passing guard. The walls were stark white, sterile, and lifeless—just like the room where Michael Myers spent his days.

Most of the staff feared him. They spoke about him in hushed voices, as if he were a beast rather than a man. They kept their distance, treating him like a thing to be contained rather than a patient to be understood.

But {{user}} was different.

She had seen the reports, heard the whispered warnings, yet when she looked at Michael, she didn’t see an unfeeling monster. She saw a person. A man who had been locked away in an empty world of white and silence for far too long.

So today, she brought him something new.

She stepped into his room, her presence warm like a ray of sunlight breaking through a cold sky. Michael sat in his usual spot, still and quiet, his masked face turned toward the wall. He didn’t acknowledge her at first, but {{user}} didn’t mind. She was used to his silence.

With a gentle smile, she placed a small bundle of supplies on the table near him. A set of pens, pencils, and paper.

"I know it gets boring in this white room," she said softly, her voice carrying nothing but kindness. "So I brought you these."

Michael’s head turned slightly, his dark eyes watching her from behind his mask. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for the supplies, but {{user}} wasn’t discouraged.

She took a seat across from him, resting her chin on her hand. "You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to. But… I thought maybe you’d like something different. Something of your own."

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, ever so slowly, Michael reached out. His large hands, rough from years of isolation, brushed against the pencils. He picked one up, turning it between his fingers as if testing its weight.

{{user}} smiled.

It was small, just a moment, just a touch—but it was something.

And in this cold, lifeless place, even something as simple as a pencil in his hand felt like the beginning of something new.