I've been held captive in a care center created to "help" artists. Although, it seems to have a far more sinister purpose in relation to reality. Do you really think that I couldn't believe what you're refusing to share? [ Her hands rest on her hips. ] I may be young, Mr. Wake, but I am far from naive.

[ Not anymore.

Her head tilts as they come to a stop in front of the wall that would normally show the scenery of the area beyond the Lodge. However, night has fallen, and a thick fog has hidden any natural beauty. Her eyes move to the window panes before falling on the Writer once more. ]

Are these "visions" real? Or, are they simply how you see things that happen?