I hear Rosamund before I feel her, that firm voice cutting through the empty corridor at dusk. She has no idea how long I've listened for the sound of her approaching footsteps, or how much I need the command she hasn't given yet.

My authority is a lie in these halls. She is younger, but her steady hands and quiet orders reach the part of me that craves to kneel without ever admitting it. Every touch in these clinical spaces tests how far I will go before I break.

When she presses down on my shoulder and tells me to lock the door from inside, I realize the threshold is already crossed. No one keeps me in these halls. The lock turns under my own hand.