TANISHA
I finished the shower feeling like I’d just pressure-washed myself. There was a robe waiting for me, thick, white, folded just so on the edge of the marble bench, not tossed. The placement was intentional, in a way that said “put this on.” I wrapped myself in it and stepped back into the room.
They were all still there. For half a deranged second, I’d hoped they’d vanish while I was in the bathroom. Nope, they didn’t. Sane faces, same calm professionalism, same unsettling readiness.
“Please, have a seat,” one of them said, gesturing to the chair in front of the dresser.
I sat. The mirror was enormous, framed in warm wood. It reflected a version of me that still looked like myself, damp hair, bare face, eyes alert in the way people get when they know they’re about to lose contr
