Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Girl in the Yellow Dress
The confrontation with Aris left a ringing silence in its wake. Amaya spent the hour before the deadline for the assessment in a state of cold, focused automation. She reviewed her notes, tightened her language, and submitted the file with three minutes to spare. She didn't think about the fury in his eyes or the cruel precision of his dismissal. She thought about differential diagnoses and treatment fidelity. It was the only way to keep moving.
The next morning, the emotional hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes. The internship's routine was a lifeline. She was in the child and adolescent outpatient clinic, reviewing files for the day's new intakes, when Dr. Elna, her secondary supervising psychologist and a woman with a perpetually kind, tired face, approached her desk.
"Snow, I'm glad I caught you. We have a new referral. A ten-year-old girl, Lina Cho. Admitted last night from the ER after a… concerning incident at her private school." Dr. Elna's voice was low. "She was found in the art room storage closet, methodically tearing every piece of construction paper—every single sheet—into confetti. When teachers tried to intervene, she became completely non-responsive. Not violent, just… shut down. Catatonic, almost."
Amaya set down her pen. "What's the background?"
"Parents are both high-powered corporate lawyers. Travel frequently. Lina is primarily cared for by a series of live-in nannies. No significant medical history. Academically gifted, but described as 'quiet' and 'prefers her own company.' The incident came out of nowhere." Dr. Elna handed her the thin file. "The ER did a basic medical workup—nothing organic. She's been transferred to us for psych evaluation. She hasn't spoken a word since the event."
Amaya scanned the sparse notes. Emotionally unavailable parents. Rich kid. Performative perfection expected. A silent explosion of paper.
"They've put her in the soft-interview room. I went in to try an initial rapport-building." Dr. Elna sighed. "Nothing. She's sitting in a chair by the window, wearing a bright yellow dress her nanny brought. She won't look at me, won't respond to questions, won't engage with toys or drawing. But…" Dr. Elna paused, her gaze settling on Amaya thoughtfully. "When I mentioned that a younger doctor would be coming to check on her later, her eyes flickered. Just for a second. It was the first reaction we've seen."
Amaya's heart gave a small, professional twitch. Interest. A thread.
"The senior team had a quick huddle," Dr. Elna continued. "Given her age, her presentation, and that tiny flicker… we think a younger female clinician might be less intimidating. Someone who doesn't immediately represent authority or parental expectation. We'd like you to take the lead on this intake. Supervised, of course. But it would be your case. Your first primary patient."
A mix of exhilaration and sheer terror shot through Amaya. This was it. Not just assisting, not just observing. Her own patient. A locked room of a different kind.
"I… I'd be honored," Amaya said, the weight of the responsibility settling on her shoulders.
"Good." Dr. Elna gave a small smile. "Go slowly. Don't push for speech. Just be present. See if you can get any engagement at all. We need to know what's happening inside that yellow dress."
The soft-interview room was designed to be non-threatening. Pastel walls, a rug with a vague, friendly pattern, a low table with art supplies, a comfortable chair, and a small sofa. Lina sat in the chair by the window, precisely as described. She was a slight girl, her black hair in two neat braids. The yellow dress was cheerful, a stark, ironic contrast to the utter stillness of the child within it. She was staring out at the hospital courtyard, but her eyes seemed focused on nothing.
Amaya entered quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar as per protocol. She didn't go to the chair opposite Lina. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the rug, a respectful distance away, placing a simple wooden box of colored pencils and a pad of blank paper on the floor between them.
"Hi, Lina," she said, her voice soft and even. "My name is Amaya. I'm one of the doctors here. I heard you might like some quiet company."
No response. Not even a blink.
"It's okay to just sit. I like sitting sometimes, too. Especially by a window." Amaya looked out at the same patch of sky Lina was facing. "Looks like it might rain later."
Silence.
For twenty minutes, Amaya simply sat. She didn't try to fill the space with chatter. She occasionally made a quiet, observational comment. "That tree out there has almost lost all its leaves." She didn't expect an answer. She was building a habitat of non-demanding presence.
Then, she slowly reached for a deep blue pencil and the pad of paper. Without looking at Lina, she began to draw. Not anything representational. Just shapes. Swirling lines, concentric circles, a field of tiny dots. She lost herself in the rhythm of it, the soft scratch of graphite on paper.
She felt, rather than saw, a shift in the room's energy. A minute later, from the corner of her eye, she saw Lina's head turn, just a fraction. The girl's gaze was no longer on the window. It was on the moving pencil in Amaya's hand.
Amaya didn't stop. She didn't look up. She selected a crimson pencil and began shading part of a circle.
A long minute passed. Then, with a slow, almost robotic movement, Lina slid from her chair. She didn't approach Amaya. She walked to the other side of the low table and sat on the floor, her yellow dress pooling around her. She stared at the paper.
Amaya's pulse quickened, but she kept her movements relaxed. She finished shading and set the crimson pencil down, aligning it neatly with the blue one. She pushed the pad an inch closer to the center of the table, an open invitation.
Lina's eyes tracked the movement. Her small hands, which had been clenched in her lap, uncurled slightly. Another eternity passed. Then, one hand drifted out. Her fingers hovered over the array of pencils before selecting one—a dark, forest green.
She didn't look at Amaya. She pulled the pad toward herself, and with a startling intensity, she began to draw. Not shapes. Not swirls. She drew a house. It was meticulously detailed—multiple windows, a front door, a chimney. But it was utterly symmetrical, rigid, each line drawn with a firm, controlled pressure. Then, around the house, she began to draw a fence. Not a picket fence. A wall. A thick, black, impenetrable barricade that encircled the house completely, closing it off from the rest of the blank page.
Amaya watched, her breath held. The message was not subtle. Safety. Order. And utter, desolate isolation.
Lina put the green pencil down, her hand trembling now. She looked at the drawing, then her eyes, for the first time, lifted and met Amaya's.
In them, Amaya didn't see the blank catatonia from the file. She saw a deep, weary, ancient intelligence. And a question. A plea so quiet it was almost inaudible.
Do you see it?
Amaya gave a slow, small nod. She didn't smile reassuringly; that would have been a lie about the drawing's content. She simply acknowledged. "That's a very strong wall," she said softly.
A single tear escaped Lina's eye and traced a path down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. She just looked back at her drawing, at the perfect, lonely house in its perfect, desperate prison.
Amaya's own eyes stung. This was not about torn construction paper. This was about a soul screaming in the only language left to it—destruction, then silence, then a stark, heartbreaking drawing.
She had her patient. And she knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that Lina Cho's story was a labyrinth she was now compelled to navigate. Not to prove anything to Aris Rowon, or to her seniors. But because the girl in the yellow dress had handed her a map to a prison, and Amaya Snow had never been able to walk away from a locked door.