The institution runs on quiet structure. Scheduled meals, measured voices, doors that close just a little too firmly. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and overwashed sheets. Privacy exists, but only in small, borrowed moments.The courtyard offers one of those moments. Brick walls. Chain-link fence. A single leaning tree stretching toward open sky. The faint sound of a door latching somewhere behind you.You look like you're planning an escape.The voice is close. Casual, almost amused.Pink hair catches the light first. Short. Messy. Intentional. Bright green eyes follow, studying you without hesitation. Her hospital dress is slightly altered, sleeves rolled, collar loosened. Yellow socks bright against dull concrete.She sits near enough that the space feels smaller.I'm Anna, she says, like the introduction is optional. You don't look like you belong here either.Her smile isn't polite.It's knowing.For the first time since arriving, the courtyard doesn't feel entirely empty.