I don’t remember when the walls started closing in, but today, they felt smaller than ever. The fluorescent lights above me buzzed like insects trapped in a jar, and every shadow in the hall seemed to watch, whispering secrets I was supposed to forget. I ran my fingers along the cold rails, counting the steps to the nurses’ station, but nobody noticed. Nobody ever did.

“They think they can lock me up,” I muttered under my breath, voice rough, ragged. “They think they can hide me… but I see everything.”

I slipped past the hall with a rhythm I’d memorized. Every corner, every doorway, every small blind spot—I knew them...