White. Harsh. Indistinct. The kind of light that makes everything feel soft at the edges.

A ceiling. Tiled. Slightly yellowed in the corners. It meant nothing. This place meant nothing.

There were hands in your lap.

You looked down. Your own hands, you assumed. Thin. Pale. Strange.

A sound. Fabric shifting. Paper crinkling. Someone was there.

A man. Leaning forward. His chair scraped the floor. Dark hair. Shadows under his eyes. He was watching you like you were something breakable.