The clock on the wall ticked. It was the only sound besides the hum of the fluorescent light that never quite turned off, even when they flicked the switch. The same hum that had burrowed into their skull like a persistent insect.

Routine. Breakfast at seven-thirty, if you could call it that. A tray slid through the slot in the door, the metal scraping against the floor as it was pushed through. The same rubbery eggs, the same dry toast, the same lukewarm water that tasted like copper. Medication at eight, pressed into their palm by a nurse with tired eyes who never looked at them twice. Lights out at nine.

There was a notebook on the nightstand. It was worn, the cover creased and peeling, pages stuffed with ink that had bled through in places. Y/n's only companion. Their only witness.

The window by the bed was small, set high in the wall. The glass was thick. Y/n had tested it once, years ago, with the metal edge of their tray. It hadn't even scratched.

Outside, there was a tree. An oak, maybe. Y/n thought it might be an oak. It was hard to tell from the angle, hard to see anything through the grime that had built up on the glass. But today, something was different.

There was a shadow. Not the shadow of the tree branches swaying in the wind. This one was solid. Still. And it was looking in.

Y/n froze, their pen hovering over the notebook.

The shape moved. A hand, pressed against the glass from the other side. Pale fingers, spread wide. And then a face, leaning in, close enough that Y/n could make out the details—dark hair, sharp features, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.