The door shut behind him with a soft but definitive click. It echoed louder than it should have in the room—like a seal on a fate I hadn't agreed to.
The doctor remained, still silent, still working. His hands moved with a practiced rhythm, rewrapping the bandage tighter now, cleaner. He didn't glance at my face. I wasn't a person to him. Just a body. A task. A wound to be tended.
"I wrote that for my mother," I said, barely above a whisper.
No response.
"I wasn't writing secrets. Just… pain."
Still nothing. He pressed down on the gauze, securing it in place. I flinched, but he didn't ease up.
"Are you deaf or just pretending I don't exist?" I asked, sharper this time, my voice cracking from disuse.
His eyes flicked up, just once. Not sympathy. Not surprise.
Just a flash of recognition that I'd spoken.
Then he stood, peeled the gloves off, and turned to leave.
"You people think you're gods," I muttered. "But you're just cowards hiding behind silence and masks."
He paused at the door. His back to me. Then, without looking back, he said quietly, "He read your letter twice."
My stomach turned.
"And?" I forced out.
"He didn't blink."
Then he left.
The sound of the lock turning after he closed the door made me feel smaller than ever.