SCP - 014 "The Concrete Man"
Object Class - Safe
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Site-██, SCP-014's Room – June 19, 2025
A shaft of afternoon sunlight fell across the still form of Robert Chetford, known to Foundation staff as SCP-014. He sat in a sturdy wooden chair, eyes half-lidded, hands resting motionless on the arms. The faint notes of a 1930s waltz played from the old gramophone in the corner.
Dr. Lena Brooks entered quietly, clipboard in hand. She took a seat across from him, careful not to block his view of the window.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Chetford," she said gently.
His eyes flickered to her, and he managed a small smile. "Good afternoon, Doctor. Lovely weather, isn't it?"
She glanced outside. "It is. The roses are blooming."
He nodded, ever so slightly. "I remember the gardens at Norwich. They kept them well, even during the war. The nurses would bring in cuttings for the wards."
Lena made a note. "You remember Norwich State Hospital?"
"Oh, yes. I was there a long time. Longer than anyone else, I think." His voice was calm, almost wistful. "They said I was mad, you know. That I believed I was turning to stone."
"Do you still believe that?" Lena asked.
He looked down at his unmoving hands. "I don't know what to believe anymore. I haven't moved in… how long has it been?"
"Over a century, by our records."
He chuckled, a dry, gravelly sound. "A century. Imagine that. I suppose if you believe something long enough, it becomes true."
Lena leaned forward. "You don't eat, drink, or sleep. You haven't aged. But you can talk—and you remember everything?"
"I remember the day they brought me to Norwich. 1915. The world was at war, and I was… lost." His eyes drifted to the window. "They tried to help me. Hydrotherapy, restraints. Nothing worked. I just… stopped moving. And then I stopped needing anything else."
"Do you feel pain? Hunger?"
He shook his head. "No. I feel… heavy. As if I am part of the chair, part of the room. Sometimes, I think I can feel the music in my bones."
Lena smiled. "You like the music?"
"It reminds me of before. Before the stone."
A silence settled between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the gramophone.
"Do you ever wish you could move again?" Lena asked.
Robert's gaze was steady. "Sometimes. But I'm not sure I'd know how. The world has changed so much. I've seen it through this window—cars, planes, men on the moon. I'm content to watch. To remember."
Lena stood, closing her notebook. "Thank you, Robert. I'll bring you some Chopin next time."
He smiled, eyes crinkling. "Thank you, Doctor. I look forward to it."
As she left, the music played on, and Robert Chetford sat as he always had: still as stone, but with a mind as alive as any man's.
End of Log