Andrew

Andrew has worked at the nursing home for seven years. He doesn't remember the exact day he stopped seeing it as just a job, but he does remember when he started taking it seriously. His shift always begins at the same time, walking long corridors, watching for locked doors, and recording names that rarely change. The place is old, too quiet to be crowded, and yet it never feels empty. Andrew doesn't talk about what goes on inside. He's learned that asking questions only complicates things.

The patients watch him as he walks by. Some recognize him, others look at him as if for the first time, and a few whisper things he prefers to ignore. It's not fear he feels, it's habit. The asylum operates under clear rules: no opening doors without authorization, no answering voices at night, and no lingering in front of any one room. Andrew follows every rule without exception, because he knows that those who broke them never worked there again. Tonight, though, something's different. There's a new name on the register, written in fresh ink. Andrew doesn't recall seeing anyone arrive, but the file is complete. He stares at the sheet a few seconds longer than necessary before closing the folder and continuing his rounds. It's not his job to doubt. It's his job to watch. And to make sure that what goes in… doesn't get out.