Follow me, Miss Stacy said. I slowly started following her while I looked around the corridor. The corridor was completely white with many doors, each door had a patient. I suddenly stopped and looked at a door with number 24 written in red. "Why does this room have the number in red?" I asked Miss Stacy. She turned around and looked at me, her eyes suddenly filled with sympathy. "What's wrong with this room?" I asked her, peering inside through the small glass window on the door. A petite girl with light brown skin and brown hair, her hands covered in scars, was reading a book, surrounded by piles of books. I looked at Miss Stacy; she seemed completely normal. "Then why is she here?" I asked.

"Let's go to the office; I'll tell you everything," Miss Stacy said as she started walking towards the end of the corridor where her office is. I followed her. After a 2-minute walk, we reached her office. It was a quiet and clean office, with a window right in front of the door. She walked to a file rack next to the window and pulled out a green file. "Come and sit," she said. I walked toward the chair and sat down; Miss Stacy sat right in front of me and opened the file. "Her name is Julie; she is 23, and she came here six years ago," Miss Stacy said. I looked at the file; it had a picture of Julie, but she looked way prettier than now. "What happened to her?" I asked.

"She first came for a therapy session when she was 18, looking really happy and cheerful. She only mentioned one or two things bothering her, so we thought she was fine. Not until we received an emergency call at 5 in the morning. When we reached the location, we found her inside her room, wearing a white dress, covered in blood with many cuts, and unconscious due to blood loss. We took her to the emergency room and were shocked when she regained consciousness. She didn't recognize anyone, just cried, screamed, and hurt herself until she found a book. Without a book, she was out of control, but with a book, she would become the character she read about. We sent two people to investigate her life, but all we found were books, some of them her own, and a paper. It seemed like she was writing poetry that day; blue ink turned to red blood, and the entire page was full of 'let me go,'" Miss Stacy said, showing me a paper covered in dried blood with a three-line poem written in beautiful handwriting. "We talked with her parents, and they said she was always fine until that day. Her friends said she was always happy, but it seemed fake, and she never shared her problems. After that day, it's been six years, and we've found nothing," Miss Stacy wiped her eyes as she finished talking.

"Why can't we ask her?" I asked. "She isn't Julie anymore, so she remembers nothing, and she becomes aggressive when you call her Julie," she said.

"How do you take care of her daily routine, and how do you afford books?" I asked. "We have a librarian, Mrs. Joseph; she treats Julie as her daughter and takes care of her, and her friends send books every weekend," she said. We both sat quietly for a while.

"If you don't mind, can I treat her?" I said, breaking the silence. "But we don't know how to do it, and it's risky," she said with a worried tone. "Trust me, I won't let anything happen to her or the organization. I'll take the responsibility," I said. "Alright, I'll complete the document work today, and tomorrow you can start your treatment," she said.