The ferns in the lobby were dead, or at least, they had been for a week. They stood in their plastic pots, brown and brittle, like the fingers of old men who had forgotten how to grip. Nora looked at them and felt a strange, hollow pull in her chest. She kept her eyes on the floor, counting the cracks in the linoleum. One, two, three. She needed to keep her mind busy. If she looked up, she would see the faces. If she looked up, she would remember.

It was a Tuesday. The air in the open-plan office smelled of ozone and stale coffee. The hum of the servers in the back corner was a constant, low drone, a sound that seemed to vibrate in Nora’s teeth. She was sitting at her desk, a small island of gray laminate in a sea of cubicles. Around her, the junior associates were typing. Click, click, click. The rhythm was soothing. It was a mechanical heartbeat.

Nora did not type. She held her pen loosely, the tip hovering over a stack of intake forms. The forms were blank. They were always blank. She was a Case Manager at the Sanctuary for Behavioral Restoration. It was a high-end clinic for adults with severe dissociative disorders. The kind of people who forgot their own names. The kind of people who thought they were from another century.

"Hi, Nora."

The voice was light. It belonged to David, her direct supervisor. He was young, too young, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He wore a suit that cost more than Nora’s car. He leaned against the partition of her cubicle, crossing his arms.

"I need the files for the new patient," David said. "The one in Room 4. You’ve been staring at the wall for twenty minutes. Is there a problem?"

Nora looked at the pen. The plastic was smooth. "No problem," she said. Her voice was flat. "Just reading."

"Read what? You have no papers in front of you."

"I was reading the air," Nora said. She hated how that sounded. She corrected herself. "I was thinking about the intake process. The forms are out of date. They ask about childhood trauma in a way that’s... reductive."

David’s smile tightened. "Nora. We are not a university. We are a business. The client wants results. The client pays for silence. We provide the silence. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Nora said.

"Good. Bring me the file. And fix those ferns. Or throw them out. They’re embarrassing."

David walked away. His shoes made a sharp slap against the floor. Nora watched him go. She felt a wave of nausea. It was a familiar feeling. Like the drop before a roller coaster. She knew she should feel angry. She knew she should feel ashamed. But she felt nothing. She felt empty. She felt like a room with the lights off.

She opened the file. It was a thick manila folder. The name on the cover was Margaret Holloway.

Nora stared at the name. Her breath caught in her throat. It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. They did not use such common names. It was too simple. It was too plain.

She opened the folder. There were photos. A woman in a hospital gown, lying on a bed. The woman’s face was pale, her eyes closed. Her hair was white, thin, and tangled. She looked old. She looked tired. She looked like Nora’s mother.

No. Not like her mother.

Nora looked closer. The face was her mother’s face. The exact same crease in the left eyebrow. The same slight tilt to the nose. The same dark circles under the eyes.

Her hand began to shake. She dropped the file. The papers scattered across the floor. A photo slid under her desk. She crawled out from behind the cubicle, her knees knocking against the leg of the desk. She reached under the desk and pulled out the photo.

It was a picture of her mother, Eleanor, taken when she was twenty years old. Eleanor had been beautiful then. Sharp-featured, bright-eyed. She had been a dancer. She had died in a car accident when Nora was five.

The photo in the file was not a picture of a young woman. It was a picture of an old woman. But the face was unmistakable. It was Eleanor.

Nora stood up. Her legs felt weak. The office was too loud. The typing sounded like rain. The hum of the servers sounded like a siren.

She walked toward Room 4. The door was glass, with a small window. She could see inside. The room was white. Sterile. There was a bed, and on the bed sat a woman.

The woman was wearing a hospital gown. She was sitting with her hands in her lap. She was looking at the wall.

Nora pushed the door open. The handle was cold.

"Hello," Nora said.

The woman did not turn around.

"Margaret?" Nora asked.

The woman turned her head slowly. Her eyes were open. They were gray. They were the same color as Nora’s eyes.

"Hello," the woman said. Her voice was raspy. "You’re the new one."

"I’m your case manager," Nora said. "My name is Nora."

"I know," the woman said. She smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a smile Nora had seen a thousand times. It was her own smile.

"Where are we?" Nora asked.

"We are here," the woman said. "In the loop."

Nora felt a chill run down her spine. "What loop?"

"The one that keeps us," the woman said. "The one that eats us."

Nora looked at the woman. She looked at the wrinkles on her face. She looked at the thinness of her hands.

"Are you my mother?" Nora whispered.

The woman tilted her head. "No," she said. "I am you. In a while."

Nora stepped back. The door clicked shut behind her. The sound was loud in the quiet corridor. She stood there, her back against the wall. Her heart was pounding. It was a trick. It was a hallucination. She was stressed. She was tired. She had not slept in three days.

She walked back to her desk. She sat down. She looked at the ferns. They were brown. They were dead.

"David," she said.

David was at his desk. He looked up. "Nora? You’re not supposed to be in the patient rooms without supervision."

"Who is Margaret Holloway?" Nora asked.

David paused. He looked at his computer screen. "Who?"

"Margaret Holloway. Room 4."

David frowned. "There is no patient in Room 4. Room 4 is empty. It’s been empty for a year."

Nora stared at him. "I just spoke to her. She was sitting on the bed."

David laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "Nora. Sit down. You need a break. Go to the bathroom. Wash your face. Come back in an hour."

"I didn’t imagine her," Nora said. "She looked like..."

She stopped. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say *my mother*. She couldn’t say *me*.

"Like what?" David asked.

"Like a ghost," Nora said.

David’s face hardened. "Nora. We have a strict policy about hallucinations. If you are experiencing visual disturbances, we need to know. It affects your clearance."

"I’m fine," Nora said.

"You are not fine," David said. "You are stressed. You are tired. You are imagining things. It happens. The mind plays tricks. Especially when you are dealing with trauma. Especially when you are dealing with *your* trauma."

Nora looked at him. She felt a sudden, sharp clarity. It was like a knife.

"My mother died when I was five," Nora said. "I remember the accident. I remember the sound of the glass."

David leaned forward. "Yes. And that memory is what is haunting you. That is what is causing the hallucinations. You are projecting your grief onto a patient. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s very common."

Nora nodded. She believed him. She had to believe him. It made sense. It was logical. It was safe.

"Okay," Nora said. "I’ll take a break."

"Good," David said. "And Nora? Don’t look at the ferns. They’re ugly."

Nora walked to the bathroom. It was at the end of the corridor. The floor was white tile. The mirrors were clean.

She washed her face. The water was cold. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red. Her skin was pale. She looked tired. She looked old.

She looked at her reflection. She touched her face. The skin was smooth. She was thirty years old.

She left the bathroom. She walked back to her desk. The office was quiet. The typing had stopped. Everyone was gone. The lights were dim.

She sat at her desk. She picked up the file. It was still on the floor. She had not put it away.

She opened it again. She looked at the photos. The old woman. The white hair. The gray eyes.

Nora looked at the mirror on her desk. She looked at her own eyes.

She saw the wrinkles.

They were there. Small lines around her eyes. A crease on her forehead. They were faint, but they were there.

She looked at her hands. They were thin. The veins were blue.

She looked at the ferns in the lobby. Through the window, she could see them. They were brown.

She realized something. The ferns had not been dead for a week. They had been dead for a year. They had been dead for a lifetime.

She looked at the file. The date on the intake form was today.

She looked at the name. Margaret Holloway.

She looked at her own name. Nora Ashworth.

She closed the file. She put it in the drawer. She locked it.

She stood up. She walked to the window. She looked out at the city. The sky was gray. The buildings were tall. The people were small.

She felt a heavy weight in her chest. It was not grief. It was not fear. It was acceptance.

She had been here before. She would be here again. The loop was tight. The loop was strong.

She thought of her mother. She thought of the car accident. She thought of the glass.

She realized that the accident had not happened. Her mother had not died. Her mother had come here. Her mother had been treated. Her mother had become a nurse. And then, eventually, her mother had become the patient.

And Nora had become the nurse.

And then, eventually, Nora would become the patient.

It was not a tragedy. It was a cycle. It was a pattern. It was the only way the world made sense.

She looked at her hands. She flexed her fingers. They were stiff.

She walked to the door. She opened it. The hallway was empty.

She walked toward Room 4.

The door was open. The room was white. The bed was empty.

She sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was cold.

She closed her eyes.

She waited.

The hum of the servers was louder now. It was a sound that filled the room. It was a sound that filled her mind.

She opened her eyes.

She was holding a pen.

She was sitting at a desk.

There was a file in front of her.

The name on the file was Margaret Holloway.

Nora looked at the ferns in the lobby. They were green. They were alive.

She smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a smile she had seen a thousand times.

"Hi, Nora," a voice said.

She did not look up.

"I need the files for the new patient," the voice said.

Nora picked up the pen. She began to write.

The click of the pen was steady.

Click. Click. Click.

It was a mechanical heartbeat.

It was a soothing rhythm.

It was the sound of the loop closing.