The world returned slowly, like breath after drowning.
Shapes first. Then color. Then stillness.
The room was bathed in dull morning light that filtered through the blinds in pale, sterile lines. I blinked, the ceiling above me unfocused, grainy. My body felt heavy—like it belonged to someone else. But even before I turned my head, I knew I wasn't alone.
He was there.
The masked man.
Sitting in the corner of the room like he'd always been there. Watching.
My breath caught in my throat. I didn't scream—there wasn't enough strength left in me to even flinch. I just stared, and he stared back.
He didn't look startled to see me awake. Didn't fumble or straighten like someone caught in the act. No. He moved with intention. With quiet control. Like he had waited for this very moment.
He stood, slowly. Not with menace—but with certainty. Like whatever happened next had already been decided.
Then he stepped forward and reached down.
His fingers brushed under my arm and lifted the notebook gently—the one I'd held in my sleep like a lifeline. The one I'd poured myself into. The one I'd bled onto with ink and tears.
He didn't snatch it. He took it like it had always been his.
I opened my mouth to protest, to ask him why—but the words caught behind the rawness in my throat. There was nothing to give but breath.
He turned away and opened it. And read.
His silence was more suffocating than any scream could have been. He didn't blink. Didn't shift. Just absorbed the words like they were statistics, not the unraveling of a girl barely holding herself together.
Time blurred. The beeping machines faded into the background.
And then the door creaked open.
A man entered in a white coat. A doctor—masked, gloved, head bowed.
He didn't even glance at the masked man in the corner. Just walked past him like he wasn't there. Straight to me.
He knelt beside the bed with a practiced rhythm. His hands were clinical and cold, unwinding the bandage from my wrist. No questions. No words. Just the rustle of fabric, the faint sting of antiseptic.
I flinched when the fresh gauze pressed into my skin, but he didn't pause. He was methodical. Detached. As if I were nothing more than a task. A wound. A record to update.
The masked man closed the notebook softly and held it for a moment against his chest. Then, just as slowly as he'd arrived, he placed it on the bedside table.
He turned to me, his gaze meeting mine one last time. His eyes behind the mask were unreadable. Calm. Maybe even sad.
Then he left.
And I didn't stop him.
The doctor remained, still silent, still working. The new bandage was tighter now. Cleaner. Still no words. Still no acknowledgment of my presence beyond the wound.
"I wrote that for my mother," I said, barely above a whisper.
No response.
"I wasn't writing secrets. Just… pain."
Nothing. His eyes remained down.
"I asked if you're deaf or just pretending I don't exist," I added, sharper this time, my voice cracking.
His eyes flicked up once. Just a glance. Not pity. Not surprise.
Just recognition.
Then he stood, peeled off the gloves, and turned to leave.
"You people think you're gods," I muttered. "But you're just cowards hiding behind silence and masks."
He paused at the door, hand on the knob.
Then, without turning around, he said quietly, "He read your letter twice."
My stomach turned.
"And?" I forced out.
"He didn't blink."
Then he stepped out.