Stolen smile, stolen intent

When I woke up, the mountains beyond the window were already glowing, and yet the world felt somehow… too prepared.

The bedspread was without a single wrinkle, a perfectly assembled outfit was waiting on the hallway rack—exactly the kind I would have chosen myself.

The scent, the hairbrush, the coffee in the living room.

As if someone had been there all along, knowing what I would think before I even did.

In the villa's basement, there was a private little breakfast room—quiet, tasteful, and too… functional. Like a stage set.

And yet: my eggs were prepared just the way I always had them. The toast—neither too crunchy nor too soft.

That kind of precision goes beyond goodwill.

When I arrived at the administrative wing of the clinic, the door to my office was already open.

Inside: the same minimalist desk, screens, dozens of folders, and not a single scent in the room.

Even the paper… smelled new.

No past. No context.

And yet: none of the folders were the ones I had requested the day before.

For a moment, I just stood there.

It felt like everything was off by a hair's breadth.

I sat down and automatically opened the topmost folder.

Carefully structured case reports. Diagnoses. Discharge summaries.

Everything was precise—too precise.

None of it left room for questions. Every therapeutic process was concluded.

No unknowns. No disruptions. No exceptions.

And that was the problem.

Irem entered without knocking, perfectly dressed, her face calm.

— Good morning, Miss Alyssa. Do you have everything you need?

— Yes. Or… no. The folders are here, but not the ones I asked for.

And by last night, I had requested files for three specific patients.

Now I have thirteen others in front of me. None of them match.

Irem nodded briefly, as if she'd already known this would be my reaction.

— The originally requested documents are also on their way.

They had to be pulled from the archive, and some items must be retrieved separately.

These… are for preliminary review.

You can still begin your work, can't you?

Her voice was polite, patient. Almost kind.

But it left no room for questions.

— And when can I expect the originals?

— Today. Of course.

With that, she left.

I looked out the window toward the courtyard.

The gardeners were there.

I decided that while I waited, I'd look for information elsewhere.

I sat on a bench in the back garden, phone in hand.

The sun wasn't scorching yet, but it had already warmed the stones.

Silence. Too much silence.

Even the birdsong sounded… timed.

I put the call on speaker and rang Léa while I ran through every detail of the morning again in my head.

I didn't know what I wanted more—to hear that I was overreacting, or to get confirmation that something really was off.

— Hey Alyss, everything okay in your white-walled, sterile heaven? — Léa answered, sleepy but immediately amused and curious.

— Okay? I have no idea.

Imagine, Léa—this morning everything was laid out for me.

The breakfast… the eggs… they were cooked exactly how I like them.

Not raw, not dry, but that soft, creamy texture. Salted, but not oversalted.

And next to them, toasted rye bread.

The coffee just how I drink it.

How do they know that? — I whispered, glancing at the surrounding bushes.

Even the gardeners moved soundlessly, like in a choreographed performance.

— Alyssa, maybe it's just coincidence.

Ninety percent of people eat eggs that way.

Only lunatics eat them dry.

And your coffee… — she laughed — you don't drink it that weird. Don't imagine yourself some complex enigma.

— Fine, but what about the clothes? The bathroom? My deodorant.

That brand you can only get at one store, the one I always order online because it's nowhere else.

How is it there?

The clothes fit me perfectly—the fabrics I like…

— Alyssa, look at yourself.

One profile picture is enough.

Professional, decisive, business style.

Simple, but refined.

It's not rocket science.

Someone could tell what type you are just from your Instagram.

And I don't mean this to offend you, sweetheart, but you're pretty… predictable. Clean-cut. Determined.

Imagine if someone really wanted to figure out what you like—it wouldn't be hard.

I went silent.

Maybe she was right.

But maybe that was the scariest part.

That someone wanted such a precise picture of me.

— And the files? — Léa changed the subject suddenly, her tone more serious.

— Nothing.

The ones on my desk aren't what I requested.

And the ones I do have—they're sterile.

As if every patient were perfect, symptom-free, showing homogeneous recoveries.

Not a single risk or anomaly.

Not even a single real psychiatric note.

It's like a PR campaign, bound in folders.

— Okay, that's definitely weird… but totally your kind of case.

If they're playing games with you, you're the best person to handle it.

— Yeah… I'll play the game, but on my own terms.

Before we hung up, she added:

— Just keep your eyes open, and don't let the little kindnesses throw you off.

They're always there for a reason.

I smiled, said goodbye, and put away the phone.

After the call, I got up and went into the kitchen.

Took two coffees—one for myself, one for one of the gardeners.

I walked out to him deliberately.

He didn't look at me, but there was a kind of elusive calm around him.

I handed him the other mug.

He didn't say a word.

Neither did I.

I just sat down on a bench, a few meters from him, and took a sip of my coffee.

The leaves rustled in the trees.

I think he smiled too.

Barely noticeably.

And so did I.