For the past few days, Elishia’s life had slipped into an oddly comforting rhythm—one that felt both foreign and familiar, like wearing a sweater that wasn’t quite hers but somehow fit perfectly.

Wake up to the warm amber light filtering through the storage room window, dust motes dancing lazy pirouettes in the golden beams. The first conscious thought was always the same: Where am I? followed immediately by the gentle reminder of safety. The clinic. Dr. Chen. Mark.

Breakfast was a quiet affair—sometimes alone with just the companionable hum of the refrigerator, sometimes with Dr. Chen’s gentle morning commentary about the weather. And if Mark was awake early enough, which happened more often than he’d probably admit, breakfast came with his usual arsenal of sarcastic observations.

“You know,” he’d said just yesterday, watching her methodically butter her toast, “normal people don’t eat breakfast like they’re performing surgery.”

She’d paused, knife hovering over the bread. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been working on that piece of toast for five minutes. It’s not going to fight back.”

Dr. Chen said from the counter, “Leave her alone, you punk. At least she’s not complaining about the food like some people.”

“Hey, I’m a gracious patient. I only complained about the porridge once.”

“You said it tasted like wet cardboard mixed with disappointment.”

“…Which was a fair assessment.”

Those moments—the easy banter, the gentle teasing—they settled something restless in her chest. Something that had been wound tight from that night.

After breakfast came the walks. Small ones at first, from the kitchen to the front door and back, her arm still protesting with sharp little reminders of her injury. But gradually, she’d grown bolder, pacing further down the short hallway whenever the sting dulled to a manageable throb.

She had asked if she could go outside—just a short walk from the front to the back, nothing adventurous. The request had seemed reasonable enough in her mind.

Mark’s response had been swift and vehement.

“Absolutely not.” He’d been sprawled on the clinic bed, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, but his voice carried a sharp edge that made her blink.

“It’s just—”

“Be careful, you might get abducted by some sleazy guys who have a thing for pretty foreign girls,” he’d interrupted, lifting his arm just enough to smirk at her like it was the most logical concern in the world.

The way he said it made her skin prickle—not from fear, but from something else entirely. Something that felt uncomfortably close to awareness.

Pretty. The word hung in the air like a question mark.

“Then maybe those guys should worry I might punch them,” she’d snapped back, her brows twitching with irritation that felt safer than whatever else was stirring in her chest.

Mark had only laughed in that lazy, lopsided way of his—the kind of laugh that seemed to start somewhere deep in his chest and spill out like honey. But after that exchange, she’d dropped the request entirely and confined herself to walking in circles indoors.

Better safe than sorry, she told herself, though she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Mark’s concern had less to do with her safety and more to do with something he wasn’t saying.

When she wasn’t pacing, she read. Books, magazines, newspapers—whatever she could get her hands on. The clinic wasn’t exactly rich in literary material, but she’d discovered a small treasure trove of old philosophy books tucked away in one of the cabinets like forgotten jewels.

Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason became her unlikely companion, though she didn’t always understand the heavy, dense language that seemed to twist around itself like smoke. She just needed something to occupy her mind, something to keep the restless thoughts at bay.

“The understanding can intuit nothing, the senses can think nothing,” she read, frowning at the page. What does that even mean?

But somehow, wrestling with Kant’s impossible sentences felt like exercise for her brain—the same way her little walks felt like exercise for her healing body.

Gab—Mark’s friend—had started appearing regularly, slipping into the clinic’s daily rhythm like he’d always been part of it. He’d become a familiar presence over the past few days, arriving with the casual ease of someone who belonged. Dr. Chen seemed to know him well, their conversations peppered with inside jokes and shared glances that spoke of long history.

Gab didn’t talk much to her directly, but he always offered a polite nod when their eyes met—a small gesture that felt like acknowledgment without expectation.

One afternoon, while she sat at the kitchen table with Kant spread before her, trying to decode his theory of transcendental idealism, Gab poked his head into the room.

“Mind if I grab a bottle?” he asked, already pointing toward the fridge with the casual presumption of familiarity.

She glanced up from her philosophical puzzle and nodded once. “Go ahead.”

He retrieved the bottle of water quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. But instead of leaving, he lingered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was working up the courage to say something.

She could feel his gaze even as she tried to focus on the paragraph in front of her, the words blurring slightly under the weight of his attention.

“Objects in space and time are given only in so far as they are perceptions…”

The silence stretched until it became almost tangible.

Finally, she looked up and raised a brow. “Do you need something?”

Gab tilted his head slightly, studying her with those pale green eyes that seemed to see more than they should. Then he gave a half-shrug, almost embarrassed.

“You’re pretty,” he said simply.

The words hit her like a small shock. Her bookmark slipped from her fingers.

His pale green eyes slid to the side as if embarrassed by his own boldness. “Maybe that’s why.”

Before she could even process what he meant—why what?—Gab turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving her staring at the empty doorway.

Elishia blinked, stunned. Her? Pretty?

The word echoed in her mind, foreign and strange. No one had ever told her that. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—her parents used to compliment her when she was little, calling her their “beautiful girl” and “little angel.” But those were parent words, the kind that came with obligation and unconditional love.

The only words that had stuck with her over the years were the mocking ones from classmates, each one carved into her memory with the precision of a scalpel:

Awkward. Weirdo. Nerd. Always scribbling. Always alone. Always in her head. Freak. Bookworm. Invisible.

Compliments? The only ones she remembered were about her grades, her academic achievements—safe, quantifiable things that didn’t require anyone to actually look at her.

But pretty? 

She sighed, softly at first… then a little louder, the sound escaping before she could stop it.

“God, that sigh,” Mark’s voice rang out from the front, carrying that familiar note of theatrical exasperation. “I swear even someone miles away would hear it.”

A pause. Then, louder: “Gab! What did you do? Did you depress her with your ugly face?”

Gab, who had apparently made himself comfortable again in the chair near the clinic bed, called out in mock offense: “Hey! I complimented her!”

“You must’ve done it wrong then,” Mark shot back, and she could practically hear the eye roll in his voice.

Despite herself, Elishia smiled. Just a little. Quiet. Hidden behind the pages of her book. But it was there—a small, warm thing that bloomed in her chest like a flower finding sunlight.

These people, she thought, they’re completely ridiculous.

But somehow, that ridiculousness felt like home.

The rest of the day passed like a still river, unhurried and peaceful. They had dinner together—well, she and Dr. Chen did, sitting at the small kitchen table like civilized people. Mark was still confined to the clinic bed, where he sat with his own plate of food and tried his best to look pitiful.

“I can sit with you guys,” he’d said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “I’m not dying.”

“You’re not dying yet,” Dr. Chen had shot back without missing a beat, “but if you tear your stitches again, I will flay you like a damn fish and leave you bleeding outside for the stray cats.”

“That’s dark, Doc. Even for you.”

“I’m a medical professional. I know exactly how much blood loss it takes to make someone cooperative.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m promising you.”

And so began another classic exchange of verbal warfare between the two—a familiar dance of insults and threats that seemed to be their preferred form of communication. Elishia didn’t even try to stop them anymore. It was useless anyway, like trying to stop the tide.

She only watched, silently chewing her toast, the smallest smile playing on her lips again as she listened to their ridiculous banter.

Maybe it was strange to say, but somehow… this foreign place, this mismatched group of people, this strange rhythm they’d all fallen into—

It was beginning to feel a little like peace.

****

Night had long draped its quiet shadow over the clinic, settling over the building like a familiar blanket.

Lying on her back in the narrow bed, Elishia stared at the ceiling, counting the small cracks in the plaster like constellations in a private sky. Only her thoughts kept her company, circling endlessly like restless birds. Though the sheets were warm and the room still, sleep refused to come.

Her mind wouldn’t quiet. It kept replaying the day—Gab’s unexpected compliment, Mark’s teasing remark, the easy warmth of dinner conversation. Each memory felt like a small puzzle piece, but she couldn’t figure out what picture they were supposed to make.

She turned to her side, catching sight of the glowing digits of the electric clock on the small nightstand.

1:30 AM.

With a tired groan, she rubbed her temples. Why can’t I sleep? she mentally grumbled. It’s not like I have anywhere to be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or…

The thought trailed off, replaced by a familiar pang of uncertainty. How long was she supposed to stay here? How long before she had to figure out what came next?

Eventually, she gave up on sleep, let out a quiet sigh of defeat, and pushed the sheets away. Her body moved sluggishly as she trudged into the hallway, her bare feet silent on the cool linoleum. The soft overhead light cast a pale yellow warmth that barely reached her feet, creating pools of light and shadow that made the familiar hallway seem almost mysterious.

At least someone had left the hallway light on. Probably Dr. Chen—he seemed to think of everything.

The fridge gave a small hum as she opened it, the harsh light making her squint. She reached for a bottle of water, the plastic cool against her palm. The first few gulps cooled her throat, washing down some of the restlessness inside her.

That was when a gust of cold wind blew against her side.

She froze.

At first, she dismissed it. The building was old—drafts weren’t unusual. Old buildings had their quirks, their settled ways of breathing. But then the wind picked up again, stronger this time, and carried with it a faint stench of garbage and alley grime. A sickening scent, familiar only in its unpleasantness.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Something was wrong.

She slowly turned her head toward the front door—

Wide open.

The white curtains separating the clinic bed from the rest of the space swayed gently, dancing in the cold breeze like ghosts.

Elishia blinked hard, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. Am I seeing this right?

But no matter how many times she blinked… it didn’t change.

The door was open. The night air was pouring in. And—

Then, a single name shot through her mind like a bolt of lightning.

Mark.

She quickly closed the fridge and set the bottle on the counter, her legs suddenly moving before her mind could catch up. She grabbed the fluttering curtains and stilled them with shaking hands.

The bed was empty.

The sheets, crumpled and thrown back.

No Mark.

Her gaze slowly shifted toward the open door, dread settling in her stomach like a stone.

“No… it couldn’t be…” she thought, a knot of anxiety twisting tighter with each passing second.

Where would he go? He can barely walk without tearing his stitches. Dr. Chen said—

She inched closer to the entrance, her heart hammering against her ribs. Outside, the street was dim, painted in shades of gray and shadow. The lamp post nearest to the clinic had long since died, its bulb dark and useless, casting everything in uncertain darkness. Thankfully, the next one, not far ahead, still worked, washing a small circle of pavement in soft orange glow.

Gripping the doorknob tightly, she squinted into the night, trying to make out any movement—any familiar silhouette—while her heart pounded louder than her careful footsteps.

This is stupid, she told herself. He’s probably fine. Maybe he just went to—

Then, murmuring.

She held her breath, straining to listen.

At first, the voices sounded distant, muffled by the night air. But then they came closer, clearer—still indistinct, but enough for her to recognize one of them.

Mark.

His voice was lower than usual, more serious. Two other voices responded, equally hushed, their words swallowed by the darkness.

She strained to listen, pressing herself closer to the doorframe.

“…mmhm… alright.”

Then came the shuffling of feet on pavement.

Then… stillness.

She waited, barely breathing.

And waited.

But no more voices followed.

A mixture of fear and curiosity coiled inside her like competing snakes. She couldn’t help it—she needed to know what was happening. Was Mark okay? Was he in trouble? Was this something dangerous?

I should go back inside, the rational part of her mind whispered. This is none of my business.

But the other part—the part that had been growing stronger over the past few days—whispered back: What if he needs help?

She stepped outside, her grip on the doorknob loosening.

The cold brushed her face like invisible fingers. The night air bit through her thin sleeves, raising goosebumps on her arms. She should have grabbed a jacket, but it was too late now.

One foot across the threshold…

Then the next.

Fully outside.

The street stretched in both directions, empty and waiting. She debated whether to go left or right, her heart racing with each second of indecision. She bit her lower lip, then made a decision—

Right.

Just as she took the first step—

A large hand clamped over her mouth and an arm wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest.

Her heart leapt to her throat, eyes wide with shock, a muffled scream barely escaping her lips. This is it, her mind screamed. This is exactly what Mark was worried about—

Then came a familiar voice, low and teasing against her ear:

“Where are you going, princess? Sneaking around like that… Is it a late-night date with someone?”

Her entire body went slack with relief.

Her pounding heart slowed.

Mark.

Feeling her muscles relax, he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her back.

“Aww… no fun. I thought you’d at least kick and struggle a little. Maybe throw an elbow or two.”

Elishia slowly turned her head, glaring at him over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed into sharp slits that could have cut glass.

She let out a low, indignant “Hmm” that managed to convey exactly what she thought of his little ambush.

Mark only laughed louder, clearly entertained by her scowl, his arm still loose around her waist.

“You should see your face right now,” he said, his voice melting into the cool wind like honey. “Pure murder. I’m actually a little scared.”

“You should be scared,” she wanted to say, but his hand was still covering her mouth.

The night was still around them, peaceful and quiet.

But somehow, the sound of his laughter—though subtle, though fleeting—felt like warmth spreading through her chest.

Something soft and unexpected bloomed there, and she found herself smiling faintly behind his palm without even realizing it.