She was sitting in the corner, her body so thin it looked like it might collapse under its own weight. Her hair hung in thick, tangled strands around her face, and her arms wrapped around her knees like she was trying to disappear inside herself.
When the light hit her eyes, she cried out and raised her hands, shielding her face in terror.
“It’s okay,” Daniel said softly, kneeling down. His voice trembled despite his training. “You’re safe now.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t speak at all. The paramedics arrived minutes later, and even they froze when they saw her. One of them, a woman named Claire, knelt beside her and whispered, “Oh my God… how long has she been here?”
No one knew. When they carried her outside, she screamed—not in relief, but in fear. She clawed at the doorframe, her voice cracking as she begged, “No outside… no outside… please…”
She didn’t know what freedom was.
At the hospital, doctors worked quickly, their faces growing more horrified with every test. She was severely malnourished, her muscles barely developed, her bones fragile. But it wasn’t just her body that shocked them. It was her mind.
Dr. Leonard Hayes sat beside her bed hours later, speaking gently. “Can you tell me your name?”
She hesitated for a long time before whispering, “Emily.” Her voice sounded unused, like an instrument left to rot.
“How old are you, Emily?” he asked.
She looked confused. “I don’t know,” she said. And then she asked something that made his blood run cold. She looked at him with wide, innocent eyes and said, “What year is it?”
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