The private psychiatric facility, Willow Creek, was less a hospital and more a sealed, serene prison for broken minds. Set on landscaped grounds, its rooms were decorated in calming blues and greens, with unopenable windows and furniture bolted to the floor. Lara had been here for a month. The transition from the acute medical unit had been seamless, she was simply a different kind of patient in a different kind of sterile environment.

Alex's daily pilgrimage adapted. The drive was longer, the setting more manicured, but the ritual was the same. He would sign in, walk the quiet halls, and enter her room. She was usually seated in a high-backed armchair by the window, dressed in soft, provided sweats, her gaze fixed on the distant line of willow trees that gave the place its name. The sunflower and the sonogram picture were now taped to the windowpane in front of her.