They say healing isn't a line. It's a loop a mess a scribble on the page that no one else understands.
But lately, Olivia thought maybe someone understood her after all.
He knocked before entering. Always. Even though she never answered.
Even though sometimes she screamed, or bit her own tongue, or curled under the bed with nails pressed into her gums.
He never looked away. Never flinched.
Just walked in with calm steps and a silence that filled the room in a way nothing else could. The good kind of silence not absence, not emptiness, but steadiness.
Dr. Adrian Vale. Psychiatrist. Or something more.
He wasn't like the others. Not even close.
He didn't ask if she was suicidal. He didn't shine lights in her eyes or read off charts.
He didn't act like she was a problem to be measured and fixed.
He brought her books.
Real books. Ten of them.
All wrapped carefully. All stacked in a neat row, with ribbon around the pile and a small note that just said:
"A promise is a promise. Start with the shortest one. Let me know which you like best."
Ten volumes. Volume One of ten different stories. All adapted from web novels. All stories she thought no one would ever remember.
She had cried not loudly, not messily. Just a slow, stunned breath and a single tear down her cheek.
He had remembered. And not just remembered he delivered.
Most people in the ward didn't keep their promises.
He did.
That was when the fear began to melt.
That was when she started to believe that maybe maybe he saw her as more than a file or a danger or a shadow of something broken.
She blinked, once just the one eye she had left.
The other was long gone.
Taken, maybe. Or lost. She never got a clear answer, not even from herself.
It had been part of the offering, part of the veil, part of the blood and screaming. Sometimes she dreamed it was pulled out by long, invisible fingers. Sometimes she dreamed she'd done it herself.
But the eye that remained it could still read.
And that was enough.
The first time Adrian visited, she tried to bite through her own lip.
The second time, she screamed at him that he didn't exist. That he was another lie.
The third time… the thing came.
The veil-creature. The devourer. All eyes and words without shape. It whispered at the edge of her thoughts give, give, give demanding pain like it was owed.
And Adrian?
He said a word.
Just one.
She never remembered what it was. Her memory skipped over it like a scratched disk. But the moment it was spoken, the pressure broke. The thing behind the veil recoiled. The room cleared.
And Adrian stood still. Calm. Not surprised.
He didn't explain it. He didn't act like anything strange had happened.
He just turned to her and said, "Ten minutes. I'll sit here. You don't have to talk."
And he did.
She didn't understand him.
His eyes weren't soft. They were too sharp to be safe, like polished glass with cracks running through the middle.
And yet… they never looked down on her.
He never asked about her missing eye. He never tried to make her talk about the thing. He never called her delusional. He just showed up, said what needed to be said, and left books behind like breadcrumbs.
That was two days ago.
Now, the ten volumes were stacked neatly beside her bed, their covers familiar. She'd finished three already. Laughed at one. Cried at another. Reread her favorite scene from the second book until the spine started to soften.
Today, he hadn't brought a book. Just visited for a few quiet minutes and asked which one she liked best.
She didn't speak. Couldn't find the words.
But she had pointed. He had nodded.
That was enough.
The next day, Olivia woke early. Or maybe she just hadn't slept.It was hard to tell.
The lights in her room remained dim unless someone turned them up manually. She preferred it that way shadows made her feel less exposed. The sterile brightness of the ward felt too much like a spotlight. And she'd spent too many nights as a stage for things that did not belong in this world.
But today, her fingers didn't twitch from panic.Her chest didn't feel like it was full of knives.
She just lay there.
One eye open. One hand on the soft cover of her new book.
Book four. A romance in a ruined world. The characters weren't strong, but they were kind. Flawed people doing their best. She liked them.
But what she liked more was that someone had thought she would.
Someone had chosen it for her.
Not at random. Not from a list.
He had looked at her really looked and picked ten stories she might like.
And yesterday, he'd said the strangest thing as he was leaving:
"I've got the second volumes ready when you are."
She sat up slowly and looked at her reflection in the polished metal wall strip beside the door. There were no mirrors in this room — not since she had tried to shatter one with her forehead. But the metal showed enough.
Her dark hair hung longer than it should have.She had tied the right side in a braid, behind her ear.The left side, where her eye used to be, she left loose — a curtain of hair to cover the emptiness.
A crooked symmetry.
She hated her face.But today, she could stand to look at it.
That had to count for something.
She wanted to say thank you.
Not for the therapy. Not for the silence. Not for chasing away the veil-creature with a word that tore through unreality.
But for the books.
For remembering.
For not forgetting her, even when she was in the worst possible state a person could be in.
But how do you thank someone who makes you feel human again?
She couldn't speak easily. The words felt too large. Too risky. What if she cried? What if her voice cracked and he thought she was still broken?
What if she was still broken?
Her hand gripped the edge of the page too tightly and tore it by accident.
She winced.
"Stupid," she muttered.
Then a knock.
Her heart leapt sideways.
It was him.
Adrian Vale.
She blinked. Stared.
In the past few day he change.
He wore a formal black suit today smooth, clean lines, tailored to a sharp frame. Black dress shoes, polished. His shirt was crisp. His tie wasn't loose.He had cut his hair.
And shaved.
No stubble. No scruffy shadows under his jaw.Just clean skin, clear lines, and an expression as unreadable as ever.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
He looked… different. Not just neater. Striking.
He's changed so much, she thought, stunned.He could be an actor now.
It was absurd, but true. If someone told her he was a rising star in a psychological drama or some courtroom thriller, she would've believed it.Not that he smiled or played the part. He just had that presence. Still, dark, composed. Someone who could break the world just by deciding to speak.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission — he always did. But somehow it felt more formal today. More deliberate.
And in his hand —
Another book.
Not volume two. Something thinner. A side story?
"Good morning," he said.
His voice wasn't warm. But it was steady. Calm. A low, even tone that didn't try to fix anything — it just stayed.
She couldn't speak.
So she nodded. Twice.
Adrian set the book on her bedside table. Aligned it with the others like it was a brick in a fragile wall.
Then he sat.
She read for a long time after he left.
The new book wasn't as good as the last, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that she could feel things again.Boredom. Curiosity. That sharp flutter of surprise when a chapter ended too soon.
Those were normal things.
And somehow, Adrian had made them possible.
She held the book in her lap and stared at the door.He always left the room quieter than when he entered.Like he took something bad with him when he went.Like he stole her nightmares just by breathing in the same air.
And he never asked for anything in return.
Not praise. Not tears. Not stories.He gave — and left.
It made her feel strange.
Not like a patient. Not like a lost cause.
But like someone being… kept alive. For a reason.
She didn't know how long she sat there before pressing the call button.
The nurse didn't come.
She didn't want the nurse.
She wanted him.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
She thought about pressing the button again, but just as her hand reached out, there was a knock.
She turned.
And there he was again.
Adrian Vale.
Formal black suit. Slight frown this time.He stepped in quietly, glancing once at her untouched tray of food on the table.
"You called?"
She nodded.
Then swallowed hard.
"Can you stay?" she asked. Her voice cracked. "Just a bit longer."
He didn't answer right away.
Then a short nod.
He pulled the chair beside her bed and sat.
No clipboard. No tablet. Just him.
She didn't speak for a while.
She couldn't.
Not because she didn't have anything to say but because everything she wanted to say felt too big for the room.
Her eye stung.
She hated crying in front of people.
But with him, it didn't feel shameful. It just was.
"Back then," she said finally, her voice small, "I was going to die. You know that, right?"
His gaze didn't shift.
"I was… gone. The thing behind the veil it wanted everything. I didn't care. I was ready."
She closed her eye. Her hands clutched the hem of her blanket.
"But you showed up."
He didn't reply. Didn't need to.
She continued, softer now. "And then… there were books. And silence. And you didn't say anything stupid like 'You'll be okay.'"
He looked at her, but gently.
"And now I'm not okay. But I'm still here. Because of you."
Her fingers tightened.
She forced herself to look at him face tilted just enough so her hair covered the missing side.
"To me," she whispered, "you're like…"
She hesitated.
"You're like a brother. The one I used to have. But stronger. Quieter. More tired, maybe."
She laughed, small and bitter. "He never wore suits."
Adrian raised one brow faintly. "Noted."
"You look like you belong in a movie now. Or on stage. Like some famous actor who shows up just to save the weird girl in the psych ward."
He didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth shifted.
"That's quite the casting."
"You're my favorite character," she said.
There was a silence after that. Heavy. Soft.
She broke it, trying to laugh off her own words.
"But you know…"
She looked away, toward the books.
"I used to think everything was part of a story. Like I was the cursed heroine. Everyone else was background noise. The doctors were guards. The nurses were warden-maids. And the voices were gods, testing me."
She paused.
"And you…"
She looked at him again.
She broke the silence, trying to laugh off her own words.
"But you know…"
She looked away, toward the books.
"I used to think everything was part of a story. Like I was the cursed heroine. Everyone else was background noise. The doctors were guards. The nurses were warden-maids. And the voices were gods, testing me."
She paused.
"And you…"
She looked at him again.
"You were a surprise. You weren't in the script."
A long breath. Then a sudden grin crooked, mischievous.
"But that's okay," she said. "The story just changed. I've gained a new—"
She stopped.
Her voice faltered.
"I mean… helper. Yeah. A new helper."
Adrian said nothing.
He watched her quietly.
To anyone else, the moment would've seemed sincere. Gentle. Maybe even healing.
But behind his still gaze, something shifted.
Not pity.
Not warmth.
Something clinical.
Something exact.
Just as planned, he thought.
I've gained a new pawn.
A pause.
Then, almost as if correcting himself:
No… a helper.
His expression didn't change.
But inside, the next move had already been placed.