They reach the stairs and climb to the third floor. They make their way along the balcony until they reach the door above which reads: Mental Health Centre. Inside there is an unmanned front desk with a chic waiting area made up of umber leather couches and a glass coffee table. The walls are a faint buttercup yellow and the gentle scent of lavender fills the air; a welcomed difference to the smell of aging blood that seems to linger in the market.A slender man, dressed in trousers and a white, collared shirt, with spectacles resting on the bridge of his pointed nose, emerges from a door to the side. He pauses, clearly surprised by his son’s visit. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his forehead.
“I’ll need to have that temperature regulator checked,” he says indicating to
