Work Text:
They see him out in the halls, tending to patients and whispering sweet nothings into their ears. Visiting their rooms and singing. Always singing.
Nobody knows his name.
It’s scratched out in the records. Frantic black scribbles cover what should have been a sure identification, leaving nothing but rumors.
It’s said he sings songs to his asylees. Gentle little melodies to soothe their raging minds. Roaring ballads, enticing hooks, all acapella. Everyone calls him The Balladeer.
Staff don’t know what to make of it. No one that’s left worked here when he was checked in. No one except the man with the fedora, and you don’t ask questions to him.
Patient opinions are divided. Some like The Balladeer, some don’t. They’re all too wrapped up in their own troubles to notice he may be one of them.
After all, that deep blue jumpsuit went out of uniform long ago.