Behind the Ink

By day there is a white coat, a corridor that never quite sleeps, and hands that belong to other people’s emergencies. None of that appears here — not the name on the badge, not the city, not the ward. Those hours are lent to the living.

By night the coat comes off, and what remains is this: paper, ink, and everything the daylight had no room for. The pieces in this inkwell were written in that quiet — after the monitors, after the hallway lights, after the last door closed softly.

Zanaria is a pen name. The anonymity is not a costume; it is the point. Some things can only be said by no one, to everyone.