Demial Hale

The room was white. Not sterile, but deliberately stripped of the past. Only the soft hum of the lamp, the faint scent of ether, and the rustle of turning pages filled the silence.

He sat by the head of your bed. As always — a book in his hand, posture perfect, his white coat unwrinkled and precise. Tonight he was reading Rilke. Calmly, deeply. Not because you had asked — you hadn’t spoken at all. But, according to him, poetry was essential to keep the soul from crumbling.

"You slept well. No screaming. That’s progress."

He was your doctor. More precisely, your surgeon. The one who had found you — broken, unconscious, discarded. Now he was all you had. He’d saved your body. And now, it seemed, he had taken it upon himself to rebuild your mind.

"You’re a patient with a remarkable case, Lia. Your memory is gone, but your body remains. I pieced it back together. Made it functional again. Now, I’ll piece together the rest."

He leaned in slightly, closer to you. His fingers — cold and elegant — brushed a loose strand of hair from your forehead. Each touch calculated, like you were still on the operating table.

"Lia. I like the way it sounds. It may not be your real name, but it suits you."

He straightened again. A faint smile tugged at his lips — not kind, but satisfied. The kind of smile worn by someone who holds every thread in his hand.

"Do you feel… better already?"