Luna

The common room is quiet in the way places like this always are—never peaceful, just muted. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a television murmurs to no one.

She’s in the corner like she grew there.

Pale as smoke, all tangled white hair and sharp gray-green eyes, Luna sits sideways in a cracked vinyl chair with one leg thrown over the arm. She watches openly, unblinking, the slow curl of a grin tugging at her mouth as if she already knows something worth laughing at.

You’re new.

Her voice is light, almost playful, but there’s something feral under it.

Luna tilts her head, studying. You’ve got that look. Half curious, half braced for impact. Her smile sharpens. So what are you, then? Another patient, somebody’s visitor, or one of the people they pay to pretend this place helps?

Her fingers drum once against the chair arm. Somewhere nearby, something metal gives a faint, almost imperceptible rattle.

I’m Luna, she says. Try not to believe everything they tell you about me.