It's what isn't said that we remember most. Knowing this, you take a deep breath as you open the door to your room. You are going for your first coffee here. The windowless corridor depresses you immediately; you've seen them too many times before. Without a word, you walk down the hall glancing at the frozen, pallid faces who are pacing nowhere in particular. They look at you, and then quickly back down towards the worn, patterned carpet, the carpet whose designs rise before you, it seems. You wonder what secrets abide in these withdrawn people's hearts. You empathize with their thought spaces. Still, you fear them for what they know, their potential for power over you, or worse, the potential for them to shun you totally. You feel stronger after the Olanzapine PRN you realize, or you wouldn't have left your room.

You are careful not to smile at any of them. Laughter is not the best medicine in a psychiatric boarding house, usually. So you quickly pass them into the deserted living-room. The carpet is a little different here than in the hallway, a little shaggier and without the designs. In the corner of the room a turned-off TV and a tattered sofa face each other. You notice that an old, brown easy chair looks comfortable. It must have hosted plenty of this home's secrets, you think, such as late-night talks, group therapy sessions and romantic relationships.

You turn and stop before the looming, smoking-room door. As you open the door, you hear the conversation halt abruptly inside: secrets are burnt up in smoke, fired by tired tongues, their quiet faces searching for your surfacing weaknesses.They eye you, then each other. You pour your coffee quickly; their faces are a blur as you turn and leave. As you hear the faint ring of reborn conversation, you wonder if secrets have been uncovered.

You settle into the easy chair in the living-room, placing your coffee on a side-table. You are thankful for being alone, yet, secretly you wish that you could be talking to someone. Someone like a certain girl from your past. Your mind begins to drift with thoughts about her. How you loved her, and how she betrayed your confidence. And now you have no confidence. You are alone. Suddenly, your coffee tastes bitter.

        You look out the window. The dark, silent faces in the fir trees eye you intently. The snow beckons, peeping timidly over the eaves, clinging to icicles. The sky is cloudy and grey. Children are playing around a snowman they've just built across the street. You wonder about the secrets they hold, hoping deep inside your soul that these children are happy. Tears begin to form in your eyes. You think about that certain girl. How she was as cold as this December day, and how her alabaster skin was white as this day's snow. Her coal, black eyes could subtly melt your heart with little effort; you begin to sweat with these recollections. She is your secret fear.

You reach for your coffee, but it's all gone and you don't remember finishing it. You vaguely recall someone walking by you into the kitchen. Dazed, you think that maybe a walk would clear your thoughts. You dare to think that maybe, just maybe, one of the people in the smoking-room would accompany you. So you rise to confront that smoking-room door again. Slowly you open it, and peer in at the suddenly anxious-looking faces who have again stopped their conversations. You panic, pulling your head back and closing the door. You realize your mistake immediately, knowing that a secret has been revealed. So, you turn blindly down the hallway, and head out the front door, located just past the nurses' office. You will walk alone, you think, in Vancouver's winter.

You do not sign out or tell the nurses that you're leaving for awhile. Outside, you suddenly see her, your lost love, and yet, you are not surprised. Her arms beckon across the street, their alabaster skin looking warm and inviting. It is cold and you do not have a coat, but you do not notice. You are in her embrace again, finally, as you fall to the ground with her. But something is wrong: children are crying all around you. Then, you realize your dilemma, and get up and step back, crying with the children.The mashed potato snowwoman has brought another secret out.