A section of wall opened.
Someone stood on the other side. Close enough to count as a person. Still enough to feel deliberate.
"You're oriented," they said. "That helps."
I nodded. The motion felt expected.
"You can sit," they said.
I hadn't noticed I was standing.
They glanced down at something in their hand. A thin file. More habit than need.
"We start with the body," they said. "Memory complicates things."
"What body?" I asked.
They stepped aside.
The wall behind them reflected.
I expected distortion. I braced for it. I had learned to expect proof of damage when a mirror waited this long.
Nothing happened.
The image stood still.
I looked at myself carefully. Posture first. Slight lean forward. Shoulders held low. Head angled without effort. I had learned that position somewhere else.
The body showed its history quietly. One shoulder a fraction higher. Skin thicker where pressure had been common. Hands shaped by holding, not reaching.
The face was calm. Not blank. Worn down in places that used to move more.
I didn't look away.
The person beside me shifted their weight.
"You can speak," they said.
"I didn't choose this," I said.
"No," they replied. "Most people don't."
They stepped closer to the reflection. Close enough that we shared the frame.
"This isn't punishment," I said.
They looked at me. "Punishment needs someone to want it."
I waited.
"This is shape," they said. "It comes from what you expect to last."
"What did I expect?" I asked.
They didn't answer right away.
"Love," they said finally.
The word sat between us. Nothing reacted to it.
My chest tightened. Not pain. Readiness. The body does that when attention might turn suddenly.
"I learned that it stays," I said.
"Even when it hurts."
They nodded.
The reflection changed. Slightly. Only if you were already watching. The torso looked denser. The stance more contained. Like a body built to hold.
"It makes sense," they said. "It worked."
"Can it change?" I asked.
"Yes."
The answer landed before I could stop myself from leaning toward it.
"How?"
"You stop living by it."
I watched the reflection again. Every part accounted for. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing dramatic. Just adaptation, carried forward.
"How long?" I asked.
They met my eyes through the glass.
"How long did it take you to learn it?"
The question didn't accuse. It didn't soften either.
They closed the file.
"We'll place you next," they said. "Others are similar. Different details. Same conclusions."
They stopped at the door.
"One thing," they added.
"Yes."
"You'll see versions of care that feel familiar. Some will ask you to lower yourself. That has kept you safe before."
The door opened.
I looked at the reflection one last time.
No forgiveness. No rejection.
Only recognition.
When I turned away, it didn't follow.
I understood then:
Nothing here was trying to hurt me.
That was new.