The pale sunlight filtering through the barred window cast long shadows across Emily's small room. It was Tuesday, and the familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. Today was her therapist's day, but the waiting felt interminable.

She traced the chipped paint on the windowsill, a ritual to distract herself from the gnawing unease. Breakfast – a tasteless bowl of oatmeal – sat untouched on her bedside table. The sounds of the ward – muffled voices, the distant clatter of a cleaning cart – usually amplified her anxiety, but today, they seemed muted, almost unreal.

She picked up a worn sketchbook filled with charcoal sketches of flowers and birds – her quiet solace. Her hand moved automatically, sketching the delicate curve of a petal, but her mind wandered to yesterday's group therapy session – the strained laughter, forced smiles, and underlying tension that mirrored her own inner turmoil.

The clock on the wall ticked with agonizing slowness. Each tick was a reminder of the time passing, the anticipation building. She tried to read, but the words swam before her eyes. She paced the small room, her bare feet padding softly on the worn linoleum floor.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She took deep, measured breaths, a technique her therapist had taught her, trying to calm her frantic heart.

Finally, a soft knock on the door. Nurse Miller appeared with a kind smile. "Your therapist will be with you shortly," she said softly.

A wave of relief washed over Emily, easing the tension that had gripped her for hours. She sat back down, sketchbook open on her lap, waiting for the familiar comfort of her therapist's presence. The anxiety hadn't completely vanished, but it had lessened, replaced by fragile hope and quiet anticipation of the solace that awaited her.