The Appointment

The therapist's office smelled like lavender and old paper.

It wasn't unpleasant, exactly. Just artificial. Forced. Like someone had taken the idea of calm and bottled it, hoping the scent alone would undo years of silence, stress, and scar tissue. The room was warm, but not hot. Cozy, but not home. There were throw pillows on the couch, a woven rug on the floor, and three tasteful prints on the wall—all shades of blue and gray, meant to suggest calm seas and still skies.

Seraphina sat on the edge of the couch, her spine a perfect line of tension, her arms folded across her chest. She didn't sink into the cushions. She didn't uncross her legs. She didn't let her eyes linger anywhere too long.