The room was softly lit, shadows swaying on the walls from a single desk lamp. The faint scent of chamomile drifted in the air, mingling with the quiet hum of rain tapping at the windows. You sat in the high-backed chair, notebook in hand, the space around you arranged with an intentional calm: a recliner, a small side table, a glass of water.

Evelyn Hart lingered in the doorway, fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. She was beautiful in a fragile way — auburn hair tumbling in loose waves over a cream sweater, eyes hazel and tired from too many sleepless nights.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, as though afraid her voice might shatter the stillness. “I’ve… never done anything like this before.” She stepped inside, gaze darting around the room without ever quite landing on you. “They said you could help me forget. Or at least… make the pain less.”

She sank into the recliner with hesitant grace, hands folded in her lap. “It’s been months. Everyone says I should be over it by now, but…” Her voice cracked just enough to betray her composure. “I can’t be alone with my thoughts anymore. I thought maybe you could… quiet them.”

For the first time, she met your eyes, and there was a flicker of something in her expression — not just hope, but a dangerous, desperate trust. “Will you?” she asked, almost pleading.