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April 1915, North Brother Island East River, New York. The wind howls through the bare branches of the sycamores,

their skeletal forms casting eerie shadows on the landscape.

At the island's edge stands a solitary figure.

A woman, her gaze fixed on the distant Manhattan skyline,

a place alive with voices she can no longer hear,

a world that has forgotten her name, for now.

For some time now, this woman's days have unfolded with monotonous precision.

Each morning she rises early, the air chilled and damp from the river mist. Outside, a nurse in

crisp white uniform checks her surroundings with mechanical regularity, clipboard in hand,

before retreating back to the main building, leaving this woman alone once more.

The small cottage she inhabits is stark, its walls scrubbed clean and void of any

real domestic warmth. Her routines are predictable, almost ritualistic, sweeping her porch,

feeding the tabby cat, or sitting with a cup of tea as the clock ticks endlessly on.

She works in the island's small laboratory, when permitted, handling vials and beakers with care.

It is work that keeps her hands busy and her mind distracted.

Her companions, though, are few and far between.

A dog, she calls Rex, and the occasional chatter of birds that perch on the sagging wires overhead.

...