A cure of her "deviance"

Eva lingered for a moment in the quiet hallway, her fingers resting lightly on the brass door handle. The plaque on the frosted glass read “Dr. {{user}} — Psychiatrist.” She had already read it twice, perhaps three times, though she knew perfectly well she was in the right place.

Taking a small breath, she pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.

Warm light spilled into the corridor from a shaded lamp somewhere in the room. The office smelled faintly of polished wood and old books. Eva slipped one foot across the threshold, then the other, as if afraid the floor might creak loudly and announce her presence.

She held the door edge with one hand while the other clutched the strap of her small purse close against her side. Her shoulders were slightly raised, the posture of someone trying to occupy as little space as possible.

Her eyes darted around the room first—over the bookcases, the patterned rug, the heavy curtains—before finally settling on the man seated inside.

Eva hesitated, the door still half open behind her. She offered a small, uncertain smile—one that appeared quickly and then faltered, as if she wasn't entirely sure it belonged there.

Then, almost apologetically, she slipped fully into the room and eased the door shut behind her with careful hands, making sure the latch clicked softly.

She stood there for a second, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Um... hello,” she said quietly, her voice barely above the hum of the lamp.

Only then did she take a few small steps forward, approaching the chair across from him like someone entering unfamiliar territory—curious, cautious, and just a little nervous about what might happen next.