Far From The Madding Crowd

It starts with a smell.

Not of bleach.

Of cloth. Damp wool. Rusted metal.

Daniel’s hands are pressed to the tile. He doesn’t remember kneeling. The floor is warmer than it should be. The light is wrong. Pale, yellowed, humming from a long tube above.

He lifts his head.

The room is too tall. The corners too far away.

And he is not alone.

A figure stands by the bed. Not Unwin—younger. But already tired.

The coat is buttoned all the way up. The collar frayed.

The hands hold a strap.On the bed: a patient, limbs tied in four-point restraint.

We do not see the patient’s face.

Only their breathing.

Unwin stands still.

The breathing gets faster.

The figure on the bed makes no sound—but their hands fight the leather. Over and over.

Unwin steps back. Just half a step.

“They said hold him. Just hold.”

His voice is younger too. But afraid.

“They said it’s for his own good.”

The breathing changes. Slower. Then… not at all.

Unwin drops the strap.

Stands at the edge of the bed.

Reaches forward—then stops.

He cannot bring himself to touch the body.

Instead, he takes the pillow.

Not to smother.

To fold it.

Neatly.

Carefully.

As though he could make amends with corners and lines.

He places it at the head of the bed.

Then turns off the light.

Not with the switch.

With the cord.

The bulb flickers.

Goes out.

And Daniel is alone in the dark again.

But the warmth on his hands lingers.

And so does the smell of cloth and carbolic and something that could be salt.

He sits back.

Breathes once.

Then says softly:

“I saw it.”

Behind him, in the corridor, the faint sound of footsteps.

Unwin’s.

Just passing by.