Amelia
When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was different. It wasn’t concrete or reinforced glass; the overhead beams were carved wood, honey-colored and familiar. The walls were painted a soft cream, far from the sterile white I had come to dread, and light filtered through real curtains, soft, diffuse, and warm, instead of the harsh flicker of containment fluorescents.
I was in Richard’s room. Not a cell, not a sterile ward. A real room. His.
It felt startlingly ordinary, the kind of room people lived in without fear or calculation. There was a desk with space for books, a bed that looked like it was meant for rest instead of restraint, and sunlight that didn’t hum with artificial tension. It wasn’t built to contain me. It just existed.
I wasn’t alone. I could hear the guards just outs
