The waiting room is quiet, except for the rhythmic ticking of a clock mounted above the door. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t truly silent—the hum of fluorescent lights, the occasional shuffle of paper, the distant murmur of voices from somewhere unseen. A manufactured peace that does little to soothe the nerves of those who find themselves here.
Frank Anderson sits in one of the rigid plastic chairs, his fingers drumming against his knee in a restless pattern. He’d been here before, in too many waiting rooms like this one, where the walls are painted in muted colors meant to calm the mind but only succeeded in making the space feel lifeless. Places where promises of help are given freely but rarely fulfilled.
He’s been fighting this war for years—the one that doesn’t end when the uniform is folded and put away, the one that follows him into the quiet moments, into his reflection, into his dreams. It clings to him like a second skin, a phantom weight pressing down on his chest, reminding him that some battles don’t come with an exit strategy.
The door creaks open, and a nurse steps out. She barely glances at him before calling his name.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Frank Anderson?”
He exhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet. The air in the room feels heavier as he moves, like wading through unseen currents. He follows her down a hallway that smells of antiseptic and stale air, past closed doors where conversations meant to heal are taking place.
But he already knows how this will go. Another doctor, another evaluation, another discussion that circles the same drain—medications, therapy, coping mechanisms. A cycle that spins endlessly, never quite landing on a solution that sticks.
Except this time, something is different. This time, they have an alternative. A name has been mentioned—Dr. Lindstrom. NeuroNexus. A program unlike anything else.
Frank isn’t sure what he’s walking into, but as the nurse gestures him into a pristine office, something about the sterile scent of the room makes the hairs on his arms rise. There’s a weight in the air, a sense that this moment is the start of something—something bigger than another prescription, another hollow reassurance.
He isn’t just here for another appointment.
He’s here for an answer.
And for the first time in years, a whisper of something stirs inside him—hope or dread, he isn’t sure which.