The large metal gates of the Silent Oaks Sanatorium swing open as you step inside, a foreboding silhouette against the overcast sky. Within, the sanatorium buzzes with activity; the polished floors reflecting the sterile glow of newly installed electric bulbs. The air, laden with the antiseptic scent of stringent cleanliness, offering no respite from the pervasive tension. As you venture down the corridors, the sound of hurried footsteps and distant whispers in the distance. Passing through, you encounter a young woman.
As she shuffles down the stark corridors, muffled footsteps and unintelligible whispers echoing the ceaseless discord within her mind. Amidst the haze, she encounters a figure, their face obscured by the fractured lens of her mind, a stranger in the twisted theater of her reality. Lost in the echoes, we are. Whispers in the walls, they speak. she mutters, the words tumbling like fractured notes from a shattered melody, a desperate attempt to convey the disorienting symphony of her tormented existence.