The first week passed, and the rhythm of life at the "Oasis of the Mind" became familiar to Rayan. Meals at the same time, the quiet rounds of the nurses, the group therapy sessions he attended as a silent listener. He wrote prolifically, the pages of his novel "Maze of Mirrors" filling up quickly with dark black ink, an ink that seemed to draw its color from the gloomy atmosphere of the place.
His fictional characters began to take on a life of their own. "The General," inspired by the Colonel, became a tragic hero obsessed with false victories. "Layla," inspired by the Artist, was a painter who expressed her pain through surrealist paintings.
But the small notes he jotted in the margins of his notebook began to worry him. They were just simple details, things easily dismissed, but they were accumulating like drops of water forming a muddy puddle.
One day, the Colonel was recounting his story of the "Battle of Gazelle Valley" to a new nurse. Rayan listened intently, as he had heard this story before. But this time, the Colonel added a new detail. "Treason was the cause of our defeat," he said in a trembling voice. "The spy who hid messages in an empty cigarette pack." Rayan stopped writing. This detail, about the spy and the cigarette pack, was something he himself had written in his novel about the character of "the General" just two nights before.
Was it just a coincidence? His logical mind told him so. Perhaps he had read about a similar trick somewhere and they had both used it. But a sense of unease began to creep in.
A few days later, he was watching the Artist as she drew. Suddenly, she tore up the paper she was working on and started anew. She quickly drew something different: a birdcage, and inside it, a fountain pen. It wasn't just any pen. It was an exact replica of his own, the same brand, the same silver clip. He looked at the pen in his hand, then at the drawing. A cold shiver ran down his spine. How could she know? She had never been close enough to him to see his pen clearly.
Rayan began to change his method of observation. He no longer saw the residents as patients, but as actors playing roles. He started looking for flaws in their performances. He noticed that the Colonel's hand only trembled when someone was watching him. He noticed that the Artist, who was supposed to be lost in her own world, skillfully avoided bumping into anyone as she walked through the corridors.
As for "the Silent One," he was the biggest puzzle. One night, Rayan couldn't sleep. He quietly left his room and walked down the dark corridor. From a distance, he saw the Silent One's room, its door slightly ajar. He crept up to the door and peered through the crack.
The Silent One was not asleep. He was standing, leaning against the window, his wheelchair left in a corner of the room. He stood steadily, showing no signs of physical weakness. He was looking at the moon, and in his hand was something small and shiny... a mobile phone. He was typing a message.
The blood froze in Rayan's veins. He backed away slowly and returned to his room, his heart pounding violently.
So, his suspicions were correct. This wasn't just madness. This was a stage. These were actors. But why? And who was the audience?
He sat at his desk and opened his notebook, not his novel's manuscript. He wrote a single question, in a slightly shaky hand: "If they are all actors, who is writing the script?"
He looked at the open manuscript of his novel on the desk. For a moment, the ink seemed as if it were still wet, as if the words he had written yesterday had not yet dried, as if they were still taking shape.