Chapter 4

I just looked at her.

My face was calm. My internal state was a perfect blank.

Her words registered, but they didn't land. They were just sounds.

"He seems happy," I said, my voice even, devoid of any inflection.

Victoria's smile faltered. A flicker of something – annoyance? – crossed her face.

"Happy? Of course, he's happy. He's with me. He realized what was real and what was... a temporary amusement."

She leaned forward, her voice a little sharper.

"He told me all about your little project. The patch. Trying to 'earn' emotions. How pathetic."

I didn't flinch. I didn't defend myself. There was nothing to defend.

My emotionless state seemed to unnerve her more than any outburst would have.

She was trying to inflict pain, but there was no pain to inflict.

It was like shouting at a stone.

Frustration tightened her features. This wasn't the satisfying gloat she'd anticipated.

"Well," she said, standing abruptly. "Enjoy your... recalibration."

She left, her expensive heels clicking sharply on the linoleum floor, the scent of her perfume a jarring intrusion in the sterile air.

My lack of reaction was my only defense, a new kind of strength born from absolute emptiness.

In the days that followed, another presence began to register, subtly.

Leo Maxwell.

He was one of the maintenance staff at Reflection House, quiet, unobtrusive.

I'd seen him around, fixing a leaky faucet, mopping a floor.

He was different from the other staff, who were either coldly clinical or radiated a weary indifference.

One afternoon, as I sat by a window in the common room, staring out at the gray trees, he stopped nearby, pretending to adjust a heating vent.

"Sarah Miller, from Oakhaven, right?" he asked, his voice low.

I turned, surprised he knew my name, my origin.

"Yes," I said.

"I'm Leo Maxwell. Used to be a park ranger back home. Knew your folks a bit."

He didn't press. He didn't ask about why I was here.

He just offered a small, almost shy smile and went back to his work.

After that, our encounters became small points of quiet in the otherwise numb landscape of my days.

He'd find reasons to be where I was, offering a quiet "hello."

Sometimes he'd leave a small, unexpected comfort – a slightly less bruised apple from the cafeteria tray, a wildflower he'd picked from a crack in the courtyard pavement, left on the windowsill where I usually sat.

He never demanded a response, never pushed for conversation.

His kindness was simple, undemanding, a faint warmth in the pervasive cold.

The oppressive atmosphere of Reflection House was constant.

The staff watched everyone. Any deviation from the norm was noted.

I saw a supervisor watching Leo once, after he'd left a small, smooth stone on my table.

The supervisor's eyes were narrow, suspicious.

Leo just nodded and moved on, but I sensed the unspoken rules of this place tightening around even his small gestures.