Far From The Madding Crowd

The corridor is warm, but no human warm. It smells of polished vinyl and eucalyptus. Not bleach. They’ve moved on from bleach. Now it’s all essential oils and white noise machines, soft LEDs and trauma informed upholstery.

Everything curves slightly. No sharp edges.

The woman in blue scrubs introduces herself – Sasha, or Sara. I forget within seconds. She walks like someone used to being followed, and never questioned.

She explains the wings as we pass them: Cognitive Rehabilitation. Mindfulness Lounge. Interpersonal Recovery. Everything sounds like it was named by committee.

She gestures towards one of the side corridors. “this is the Quiet Wing, where your…where Daniel is currently placed.” She says it like an afterthought, like his presence is a technicality.”

I pause beside a glass door.

Beyond it, a low room painted in calming tones – dust blue, grey, mushroom beige. There’s a sensory wall. One of those sand trays with brushes. A looping video of reeds swaying in water projected onto the far wall. Daniel sits in the middle of it all, unmoving, like a statue in the wrong museum.

“He doesn’t speak,” she says, “Not since admission.”

“I see.”

“We don’t push,” she adds, with a rehearsed smile. “We create the conditions for safety. Hope expression follows.”

Behind the glass, Daniel blinks.

She opens the door.

The scent of lavender filters out. Too sharp.

I step in.

Daniel turns his head.

Just slightly. Just enough.

His eyes don’t change. But his breath does.

I sit, without being asked.

For a while, nothing happens.

I don’t look at him directly. I remember enough to know: looking too hard can feel like pressure.

I place my hand on the table between us. Not reaching. Not offering. Just being.

His eyes move to the hand.

Then to the wall behind me.

Then back to the reed knot in my other hand. I hadn’t even realised I was still holding it.

He opens his mouth.

Then:

“Helen.”

Barely audible. But whole.

I don’t speak.

If I do, it might break whatever bridge we’re on.

Outside the glass, the woman in scrubs stiffens. She’s writing something already.

But she doesn’t know what it means.

I do.

He remembers.

Not me, exactly.

The moment.

The door.

The hum.

The knot.