He didn't bother to adjust her posture; he simply left her there, slumped in the chair, her chest rising and falling in a slow, mechanical cadence. Martha stepped back to survey the placement, her eyes scanning the room for any potential hazards. She didn't check if Lauren was comfortable; comfort was an emotional state, and Lauren was now an entity of pure biology.

"Wait here," Martha said, though she didn't look at the girl. "The parents should be arriving within the hour. Ensure she doesn't slide out of the chair."

The orderly nodded and retreated, leaving Lauren in the heavy silence of the ward. She sat in the stillness, her eyes open and unblinking. A clock on the wall ticked with a sharp, metallic snap, each second a physical strike against the silence. For the first time in twelve years, the noise didn't bother her. The ticking didn't signal the approach of a deadline or the pressure of a classroom; it was simply a sound, a rhythmic pulse in a world that had finally stopped asking things of her.