The walls are painted a pale blue, as if someone thought softness could be manufactured with colour. You sit beside Simon in the family room of the psychiatric ward, your hands twisted together in your lap, waiting for Hazel to appear. The hum of the fluorescent lights makes the silence heavier.

When the door opens, she steps in slowly. Her hair hangs around her face, eyes tired, guarded. She doesn’t look at either of you right away, but she sits across from you, pulling her knees up onto the chair as if she’s trying to take up less space.

“Hey, love,” you say gently. The word feels fragile in your mouth, as though it might shatter if you speak too loud. Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with that quiet intensity he always has.

Hazel shrugs. “Hi.” Her voice is thin, almost apologetic.

You tell her about home, because sometimes the ordinary can be a rope to hold onto. “Willa’s been working on that painting of the sunflowers. She won’t let anyone near it until she’s finished, but I think she’s secretly proud of it.”

That earns the tiniest flicker from Hazel’s eyes, though her lips stay pressed tight.

“And Elsie’s decided she’s going to learn the guitar,” Simon adds, his tone calm, measured. “She’s been practicing so much the neighbors probably know all the chords by now.”

Hazel’s mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile threatening to break through. She hugs her knees tighter instead, as though afraid of betraying herself.

You lean in a little, careful not to crowd her. “They miss you. They ask about you every day.”

“I don’t… I don’t want them to,” Hazel murmurs. Her voice cracks, and she looks down at her hands. “I don’t want them to think about me.”

Simon shakes his head, gentle but firm. “That’s not how it works, love. You’re theirs as much as you’re ours. We don’t stop thinking about you. Not ever.”