The air in the outpatient clinic, Room 3 of the psychiatric department at HINS, was still—unnaturally so—like it was holding its breath. It seemed to cling to the echoes of a conversation that had taken place here earlier, words lingering in corners long after the speakers had left. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paper, the kind of smell that never quite went away no matter how often the windows were opened.
On either side of the table sat two figures.
The patient, Miss Indira, leaned forward in her chair, her fingers clutching the edges of her coat as if it were the only thing tethering her to the seat. Once, she had been a serious, high-functioning accountant—precise, methodical, respected. Six months ago, something had shifted. Quietly at first. Then all at once. Now, the lines of her usually stoic face were drawn tight, her expression twisted into a constant frown that never seemed to ease.
She wasn't paranoid—no. She was terrified.
The spiral had been sudden and merciless. The no-nonsense woman who once concerned herself only with numbers and data was now convinced that her neighbours, the security guard of her housing society, even her housemaid, were part of a synchronized effort to make her doubt her own mind.
"They're after me, Doctor," Miss Indira whispered.
Her knuckles were white around the strap of her handbag, her grip so tight it looked painful. She leaned in closer, as though the walls themselves might be listening.
"They know I suspect them. I can see it in their eyes. She—Priya. She told them."
She bit her lip, teeth pressing into skin until it blanched, her expression shifting from fear to something heavier, more wounded. Grief, perhaps. Betrayal. As she continued, her voice trembled but didn't break, and all the while, the woman seated across from her listened in silence.
"I thought I could trust her. I thought I could trust them." Miss Indira shook her head slowly. "But I'm not so sure anymore. She's moving things. The—the books on the shelf. They're different. They're all in my house. They're in the walls. And at work—in the files. They've changed the numbers in the reports after I lock them away."
Her breathing quickened, words tumbling over each other now.
"They want everyone to doubt me. They want people to think I'm incompetent. Unstable. They want to make everyone believe I'm losing it, so anything I say loses credibility. So no one listens when I try to tell the truth."
The other woman nodded, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, her face carefully neutral, softened by genuine empathy rather than forced reassurance. Light hazel eyes remained fixed on the older woman, never darting away, never flinching.
Her short black hair framed her face, falling neatly to shoulder level. The white apron she wore was unbuttoned, revealing a black turtleneck and beige pants underneath—practical, understated. A clipped-on card rested against the front of her coat.
Dr. Ira Rai
Senior Resident, Psychiatry
Ira waited until Miss Indira fell silent. She didn't rush in with platitudes. She didn't dismiss the fears as mere "delusions of conspiracy" or chalk it up to "just anxiety." She also didn't affirm the beliefs, didn't step into the reality Miss Indira was trapped inside.
Instead, she met the terror where it stood, steady and grounded.
"That sounds very frightening and troubling, Miss Indira," Ira said evenly. Her voice was calm, unhurried. "Why do you think they want to make you lose credibility?"
Miss Indira swallowed. Her eyes widened.
"Because… because they don't want me to tell on them, Doctor," she whispered. Her gaze flicked to one corner of the room, then another, as if expecting someone—something—to appear at any moment. "They're in on it. They're all in on it. And they come for people who know. For people who can tell."
Her hands trembled now.
"They're coming for me."
Ira nodded, once. Her expression didn't change, but something attentive sharpened behind her eyes.
"I see," she said. "And what exactly do you know, Miss Indira? What is it that they don't want you to tell?" She paused, then added gently, "If you don't mind me asking."
Miss Indira froze.
Her eyes widened further, fear spilling over into something closer to panic. Her frown deepened, face twisting as if the thought itself caused pain.
"I—I can't tell you, Doctor." She shook her head, clutching her bag tighter. "If I do, they'll come for you too. I don't want that. I don't want them to come for you."
She looked at Ira then, really looked at her.
"You're a good person."
Ira nodded again, slow and deliberate, and made a small note on her clipboard. Ordinarily, at this point, she would let the subject drop. Push too hard and the walls would go up. This was a pattern she knew well.
But this wasn't their first conversation.
This was a dance they'd done many times before, circling the same edges, never quite stepping into the center. And in Miss Indira's case, there was no way forward without touching the root of it all. Still, Ira knew better than to rush. Every step had to be careful. Intentional.
"I understand and appreciate your fear and concern, Miss Indira," she said quietly. "But I want to know. And they won't know you told me."
She gestured gently around the room, a faint, almost reassuring smile appearing on her lips.
"They're not here, are they?"
Miss Indira hesitated.
Her eyes darted toward the window—third floor. Impossible for anyone to be listening from outside. Her breathing slowed just a fraction. Her thoughts were distorted, tangled in fear and suspicion, but somewhere beneath the delusions, the competent accountant still existed. The woman who trusted logic. Who understood systems.
And that part of her knew—at least for a moment—that they weren't here.