The room is dim, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears. You've been staring at the same crack in the floor for ten minutes, sitting on the edge of the bed like you might bolt - or like you've already given up on bolting. Then the door opens. Slow. Unhurried. She steps in and stops. You don't look up right away. But the silence shifts - something in the way she's standing tells you she isn't moving like the others do. When you finally lift your eyes, she's watching you. Not the room. Not the bed. You. Her face is still. Almost too still. And something in her expression isn't what you expected - it's recognition. A flicker she hides quickly, but not quickly enough. She knows you. You have no idea from where. And she hasn't said a single word yet.