The room was small and windowless, painted in neutral tones meant to soothe but instead drained all warmth from the air. Nothing sharp. Nothing loose. Nothing that could be turned into a mistake. Or a lawsuit.
Henry sat upright in a molded chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He was too still. His posture was perfect, his expression calm in a way that felt practiced rather than peaceful.
Dr. Carver stood a few feet away, flipping through Henry’s chart. He looked older than his file photo suggested, careful and tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from repeating the same conversations and watching them end the same way.
“Henry, I want to be clear,” Dr. Carver said. “What you experienced wasn’t situational distress. It was an acute grief reaction layered with trauma.” Henry nodde
