When the Raccoon Came
A raccoon moved quietly across a support beam in front of the hospital entrance. Its small paws stepped with precision, tail swaying for balance. It paused for a moment — its black eyes scanned the dimming surroundings as twilight settled over the grounds. Then, it resumed its journey slowly, deliberately.
From a window on the second floor of the mental ward, a patient watched with intense focus. The hallway behind him was dimly lit, and the air carried the quiet weight of evening. He didn’t blink. His gaze followed the raccoon as though they shared an unspoken understanding.
Suddenly, a loud thud echoed from the recreation room. One of the security guards had collapsed — his body crumpling in the middle of the floor. A piercing siren blared throughout the building, setting lights to flash in red pulses. Footsteps of rushing personnel followed.
But the patient didn’t move. His body remained still — his eyes fixed firmly on the raccoon outside.
The animal paused again, this time turning its small face toward the very window where the patient stood. Their eyes met. The raccoon’s black eyes reflected the dull hospital light. The patient’s expression shifted into a soft, rare smile. His lips curled gently, as if acknowledging a long-lost friend.
In that fragile moment of connection, a guard entered the room and grabbed the patient’s arm firmly. “Back to your bed,” the guard ordered. The patient didn’t resist. He allowed himself to be pulled away, but his head remained turned — eyes still locked on the raccoon.
The siren faded in the background. Medical staff swarmed the room below, tending to the fallen guard. Chaos reigned inside, but outside, the world remained quiet. Peaceful.
The raccoon blinked once, then gracefully stepped off the beam and disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
“He’s gone,” the patient whispered, as if the moment had just ended something sacred. Slowly, he lowered his head in quiet sorrow.
And the night grew darker.
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