The next morning, Asylum sat at the edge of the city, half-hidden by a crown of cypress trees. In the morning fog, it looked more like an abandoned monastery than a hospital — pale stone walls streaked with moss, its windows tinted against the sun like shuttered eyes.
Alden's car rolled to a stop in front of the main gate. He sat there for a moment, the engine humming, fingers resting motionlessly on the steering wheel. His reflection stared back at him from the glass — perfect suit, clean shave, calm eyes.
The image of control.
He whispered to himself, almost rehearsing:
"You are in control."
Then he stepped out.
Inside, the corridors were quiet except for the faint echo of shoes on tile and the distant, disjointed hum of someone humming an old lullaby. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air — sharp, metallic. Nurses greeted him respectfully, their voices subdued. Everyone knew Dr Alden. Everyone admired him.
But today, admiration wasn't what he sought.
He moved through the hall until he reached the lower wing — Ward D.
Behind these reinforced doors were patients who spoke in riddles, whose minds had turned their own realities inside out.
And one of them — Cunayet Vural — had recognised Mira.
The door to the interview room clicked shut behind him.
Cunayet sat cross-legged on the metal chair, hands cuffed to the table, his gaze fixed on the reflection of light trembling on the wall. His hair was slightly overgrown, his face unshaven, but there was an alertness in his eyes — sharp, calculating, alive.
Alden placed a file on the table and took a seat opposite him.
"You caused quite a scene that day," he said evenly. "Attacking a visitor, on no provocation."
Cunayet's mouth curved into a faint smirk.
"She's not a visitor."
"She's my wife," Alden replied, tone cold. "And you terrified her."
"Your wife," Cunayet repeated, almost laughing. "That's what you're calling her now." He tilted his head, eyes glittering with dark amusement. "You always did like playing God, didn't you, doctor?"
Alden's fingers tightened around his pen, but his face remained composed.
"Delusions again," he said quietly. "You're projecting past figures into current—"
"Stop," Cunayet interrupted, leaning forward as the cuffs rattled. "Don't do that therapist voice with me. I remember her." His voice lowered, almost trembling. "Her name isn't Mira."
Alden froze — just for a second.
It was enough.
Cunayet saw it and smiled.
"You hesitated," he whispered. "You always forget to breathe when you lie."
"Enough!" Alden's voice cut through the air. "You will not speak about my wife again. Understood?"
Cunayet leaned back, laughing softly.
"Wife… lover… experiment… which one was she, Alden?"
Alden stood, chair scraping against the floor. For the first time, the composure cracked — a flicker of anger behind the calm mask.
"You're sick! Cunayet. You see patterns where none exist. The only thing real here is your obsession."
"You mean your guilt, your obsession," Cunayet shot back. "You think if you rewrite the story, it won't haunt you. But it does, doesn't it? Every night. Her screams."
Alden went still. His breath hitched just slightly.
"You should rest," he said quietly. "This conversation is over."
"Run, then," Cunayet whispered as guards entered the room. "But she'll remember. They always do."
Alden turned away as the guards led him out. But as the door shut, he caught one last echo — Cunayet humming a tune under his breath.
It was the same tune Mira often hummed absentmindedly while painting.
Alden returned to his office, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. He stared at his reflection in the glass again — and for the first time, it stared back differently.
For the first time, he looked haunted.
He reached into his drawer, pulling out a small USB drive labelled "Session 17 — Mira".
He stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the label.
"You were supposed to be fixed," he murmured. "You were supposed to forget."
The faint sound of humming drifted through his memory again — Cunayet's voice, echoing like a prophecy.
And for the first time in years, Alden wasn't sure who the doctor really was — or who the patient had been.