Nancy’s arrival at the rehabilitation center was swift, almost unsettling in how quickly it was arranged. Since she was an orphan, there were not many procedures to follow, no complicated guardianship paperwork that could delay the decision, no family members raising objections or asking endless questions.
A few signatures from the administration, a brief evaluation of her condition, and she was brought in quietly.
Her arrival indeed caused the emotions Ash had bottled up for years to loosen, as if something inside him had finally cracked under pressure. The moment he saw her after such a long time, standing awkwardly in the hallway with uncertain eyes, something in his chest tightened painfully.
Ash, who had maintained a carefully crafted mask in front of every therapist and authority figure, cried for the first time that day. It was not forced, not rehearsed, not measured.
It was raw and sudden, his shoulders trembling as tears streamed down without restraint, surprising even himself.
All the psychiatrists who were present there furiously took notes the instant they witnessed the shift in his behavior. Their pens moved quickly across their notebooks, recording every tremor in his voice, every flicker in his expression, whispering brief observations to each other while maintaining professional composure.
To them, this was progress, a breakthrough they had been waiting for, evidence that emotional attachment still existed beneath the layers of controlled responses.
Meanwhile, Ash, who was watching all these scenes play out, stood inside the same monitoring room where everyone was present. He was there and yet not there, observing the adults leaning forward toward the screens, listening intently as the younger version of himself spoke to Nancy.
He could see the glow of the monitors reflecting in their glasses, hear the faint hum of equipment, and sense the tension in the room as they analyzed every word exchanged between the two children.
It had to be noticed that Ash had already realized that this dream or memory being played out before him was simply too real. Not real in the literal sense of physical existence, but real in a deeper and more unsettling way, as if it carried layers beyond ordinary recollection.
The details were too precise, too complete, extending beyond what he consciously remembered.
For example, although Ash could not move too far away from the Ash inside this dream or illusion, he could still access all sorts of things and happenings in his surroundings.
He could hear conversations that were taking place behind closed doors, observe the subtle gestures of staff members outside the frame of the camera, and even sense events occurring in corners of the building that his younger self had never witnessed. Even those things which Ash had absolutely no memory of were unfolding clearly before him.
At first, Ash thought it was just a dream, only a memory being replayed in his mind. However, how could that memory be replayed when he had literally no recollection of those happenings that occurred behind him or outside his awareness at the time.
A memory should only contain what he once perceived, nothing more.
Just take the current situation for example. He was currently inside the monitoring room, watching the staff observe Ash conversing with Nancy through the cameras.
He could see their tense expressions, hear their murmured analysis, and notice the precise time stamps flickering on the screens.
But how could he even hear and listen to their words and voices when he had absolutely no memory of this happening. He had never known he was being observed in that room at that exact moment, and yet here he was, hearing every syllable as if he had been present all along.
Ash kept all these findings locked inside his mind as he forced himself to look away from the screen, which was showing his child version crying in front of Nancy. The sight felt heavy, almost suffocating, stirring something uncomfortable within him.
Sigh....I can’t bear to watch myself cry....its embarrassing....I wish I had powers to go back in time and just shoot that version of mine straight in the head...
While he was thinking this, the scenery around him changed once more, shifting so naturally that it felt less like a transition and more like reality rearranging itself.
Now, Ash was standing in a room. A room, with a white bed on which Ash was sleeping, his small figure curled slightly under the thin blanket as if even in rest he did not fully trust his surroundings.
The room was modest with all things a child may need, there was also a big mirror of rectangular size that was placed on one wall, polished clean and reflecting almost the entire interior without distortion. The mirror covered half of that wall, making the space feel both larger and strangely exposed at the same time.
Ash walked towards that mirror ignoring the sleeping Ash, his steps slow and measured as if he already knew what he would see but chose to confirm it anyway.
As he passed through the mirror, he saw 3 psychiatrists were looking at the sleeping Ash and talking among themselves through the two way mirror, their reflections faint but clear enough for him to read their expressions, serious and analytical.
"His mental state showed some signs of being very active when he talked with Nancy back there." NPC 1 muttered under his breadth, adjusting his glasses slightly while glancing down at the notes he had written moments ago.
"Indeed you are right, we are observing him for the past 2 years, his mental state is really something new. I mean, its not everyday, you see a brain developing in such a bizarre way than what a normal child would have." NPC 2 backed up the comment of NPC 1, his tone carrying both curiosity and unease as if he was not sure whether to label it as progress or as something more concerning.
"That’s called hypervigilant maturity, you idiots. Although you might not see a kid committing murder at the age of 7, that is indeed rare. But all over the world there are countless people who suffer from hypervigilant maturity. And its not maturity in a sense, its a mental state. A state where brain is forced to adapts at early age because it does not feel safe and secured in his surroundings."
NPC 3 spoke up hearing both his students speaking nonsense, his voice calm but firm, as if he had repeated this explanation many times before and was tired of romanticizing what was essentially trauma shaped into sharp awareness.
Ash watched all that and heard every word they said. He listened carefully to their discussions, to every explanation and every confident assumption they made about him, but in the end he simply shook his head at their ramblings.
What’s the point of their surveillance either way? There exists no particular cure for mental illness and mental health problems.
He did not think this lightly. He thought about it more carefully this time, trying to see it from their side as well.
Even if they observed him for years, even if they recorded every reaction and carefully named every pattern in his behavior, what exactly were they trying to fix? A mind does not break without reason.
It adapts. And when it adapts too well to pain and danger, the world gives it a label and calls it a disorder.
Mental illness is rarely spoken about openly, especially in places like this. Rehabilitation centers and psychiatric wards are built away from ordinary life, almost hidden, because people are uncomfortable admitting that the human mind can fracture just like a bone.
If someone breaks an arm, everyone understands. There is a cast, medicine, rest, and sympathy. But when the mind fractures, there is no visible proof, and people respond with distance, fear, or silence instead of comfort.
There is no single cure because the mind is not a simple device with broken parts that can be replaced.
Some wounds can be eased through therapy. Some symptoms can be controlled with medicine.
But the events that shaped the mind remain. The fear remains. The lessons learned in pain remain. You cannot erase those like deleting a file.
The world moves on quickly. Institutions move on. Even families move on. But the child who learned to survive in a harsh way does not simply return to innocence.
Ash looked at his sleeping younger self again and felt something colder than bitterness. It was clarity.
They were not wrong to observe him. They were not wrong to try to help him.
But they were not capable of undoing what had already shaped him.
Most mental suffering does not appear suddenly. It forms slowly, layer by layer, shaped by environment, pressure, fear, and repeated moments of helplessness. When the mind finally cracks under all of that weight, society calls it an individual problem, as if the person existed in isolation.
That is the first harsh truth.
A child grows up in a house where shouting and argument is normal. He learns to read footsteps in the hallway, to detect danger in sudden silence, to notice the smallest change in tone before a storm begins. His body learns before his mind does, storing tension in his shoulders and breath. Years later, people call him anxious. They say he overthinks. They tell him to relax.
But he is not broken. He was trained by survival.
A girl grows up being told she must be perfect. High grades, polite smile, no mistakes. If she fails once, love becomes distant, praise becomes cold, and approval feels conditional. She learns to measure her worth through performance.
When she turns twenty and collapses under pressure, unable to carry the weight of constant expectation, people say she has depression. They ask why she cannot "just be strong."
They forget who taught her that love is conditional.
A boy is bullied for years. He becomes distant, cold, emotionally shut down, because showing softness only invited more pain. He stops reacting. He stops trusting. Later, people say he lacks empathy.
They do not ask how many times his kindness was punished, or how often he was left alone when he needed help.
Society does not like tracing causes. It prefers labels.
Anxiety disorder.
Mood instability.
Behavioral problem.
Labels are clean.
Causes are messy, uncomfortable, and often shared by many.
Hospitals for the mind are quiet not because the problem is small, but because the problem is everywhere. If mental illness were fully acknowledged, people would have to admit that modern life itself produces it, that the systems people call normal carry silent pressure.
Long working hours.
Constant comparison on social media.
Financial pressure.
Broken families.
Academic competition that treats children like machines.
People are told to run faster in a race they never chose. When they collapse, they are told to see a therapist so they can run again, rarely being asked whether the race itself is humane.
That is the second harsh truth.
Many mental health systems are built to restore functionality, not peace. The goal is often to make someone stable enough to return to work, to school, to society. Stability is important, yes. But stability is not the same as healing, and functioning is not the same as feeling whole.
A man works twelve hours a day in a job he hates to feed his family. He develops insomnia and panic attacks because his body never feels safe enough to rest. He gets medication so he can sleep. But the job remains. The pressure remains. The fear of losing income remains.
The symptom is treated. The cage remains.
A teenager feels worthless because every day he sees others online living "better" lives.
Perfect bodies, perfect trips, perfect success carefully curated for display.
His self esteem collapses under constant comparison. People say he has low confidence. They rarely question the system that profits from insecurity and keeps him scrolling.
Wisdom is not blaming doctors. Many of them try sincerely. Therapy saves lives. Medicine prevents suicide. Support groups rebuild broken hope when someone feels completely alone.
When a mind adapts to survive chaos, society later calls that adaptation abnormal.
That is the irony.
A child becomes hyper aware because danger was real.
An adult becomes distant because attachment once meant pain.
A person becomes cold because warmth was never safe.
Then the same world that created those conditions points at the result and says, "Something is wrong with you."
Hospitals for the mind are quiet places. Not because suffering is rare, but because suffering makes people uncomfortable.
Broken bones are visible, and visibility invites sympathy.
Broken thoughts are invisible, and invisibility invites doubt.
The harsh truth is this:
Mental health systems often treat symptoms, not origins. They stabilize behavior, regulate emotions, reduce risk. These are necessary. They save lives. But they cannot rewrite childhood. They cannot erase years of fear. They cannot rebuild a world that shaped someone through pressure and silence.
There is no simple cure because the mind is not a machine that can be repaired by replacing parts.
It is shaped layer by layer through experience, memory, and adaptation.
Remove the anxiety, and sometimes you also remove the alertness that once kept the person alive.
Remove the numbness, and you may reopen pain that was buried simply to survive.
What people call disorder is often distorted survival.
True wisdom is not mocking therapy, nor worshiping it blindly. It is understanding its limits.
It is recognizing that healing is not returning to a previous state, but learning how to live with what shaped you, without letting it silently control you.
***