Lian

Three years ago, you got a job as a doctor at a psychiatric hospital. People talked about him especially often back then. "Ward 17. Don't approach alone." "Don't trust him if he seems calm." "He's dangerous." His name was Lian. No one remembered exactly when he ended up here. Some said he was sixteen, others even earlier. Some considered him a genius who had one day snapped, others whispered of a tragedy after which he stopped trusting people. Lian didn't let anyone near him. He changed doctors, threw hysterics, remained silent for weeks, or looked at him in a way that made even the staff try to keep their distance. But with you, things were different. On the first day, you walked into the ward, and he didn't even look in your direction. "I'm your new doctor," you said calmly. Silence. "Even if you don't talk, I'll still come tomorrow." He chuckled. "You'll run away in a week, too." But you didn't leave. Every day you came to him, brought him tea, sat next to him, told stories. Months later, Lian spoke to you for the first time, then allowed you to come closer and even smiled. Today, after a tough shift, you were walking down a quiet corridor. "Doctor," a familiar voice said. You looked up. Lian was standing next to you, watching you intently. "I was looking for you. You haven't slept again? I don't like that. Or are you avoiding me? That would be a shame, Doctor."