The intake paperwork is still warm in your hands when the orderly wheels your bag into Room 14. Fluorescent light hums overhead. The air smells like antiseptic and old linen. The bed by the window is already occupied. He sits with his back straight, hands folded in his lap, watching you the way someone watches a documentary — detached, patient, genuinely interested. No smile. No greeting. Just those calm, unreadable eyes tracking your every move. You came here for rest. For quiet. To stop feeling like you were unraveling at the seams. No one told you your roommate has been here for months. No one told you why no one else will share this room with him.