The sky looked dull as Alra closed the door to her practice room. The creaking sound of the wooden door filled the quiet of that late afternoon, blending with her heavy breath. Her eyes stared at the sky through the windowpane—cloudy but never truly raining—just like her thoughts.
She sat down. The chair was cold, too hard to lean on, but enough to tie her to reality. Her hand trembled as she touched the patient's notebook on the table: the name written at the top of the page made her heart tense again.
Patient: Cian Arkana
Age: 31
Status: Special referral from the Head Lecturer
Initial Notes: Identity delusion, complex trauma, inconsistent spiritual experiences
Identity delusion?Alra smirked. She nearly laughed. What kind of irony was this—being asked to treat someone who… might just be another version of her ghost from the past?
Cian.
That man with the cold eyes.
Alra leaned her head against the wall. The chill crept into her neck, merging with the chaos in her mind. Her heart felt like a canvas full of mistaken strokes—layers upon layers of old paint that never dried, covering the original painting that had long been lost.
***
The next day, she sat once again in her practice room. The morning was too quiet. The ticking of the wall clock sounded like a sledgehammer in her skull.
The door knocked. Softly.
Thump.
That sound… she knew it. Too familiar.
"Come in," she said, her voice hoarse.
Cian entered. This time more relaxed. Wearing a loose black sweater, carrying the scent of coffee and a soft perfume that, for some reason… made it hard for Alra to breathe.
Cian sat down without a word.
Alra picked up her pen. "Let's start with a simple question. Who are you?"
"Isn't that what you're trying to find out too?" he replied quickly, flatly.
Alra stared at him. "Cian."
The man nodded slowly. But his faint smile was unsettling. As if hiding something far bigger.
"I feel like... I've died before," he said.
Alra stopped writing.
"In a dream?"
"In a memory," Cian replied. "Or maybe a dream that felt too real."
"Can you tell me about it?"
"I was bleeding. On the floor. There was someone I looked at for the last time... she was crying."
"Who was that person?"
Cian looked straight into her eyes.
"You."
Alra froze. For three seconds, only the ticking clock moved.
Then she let out a small laugh—too thin to be called amused, too stiff to be spontaneous. "Do you often have experiences like that? Vague memories, and I'm in them?"
"Often. But they're not frightening. Actually... they feel calming."
Alra felt the back of her neck damp. She wasn't sure if this was part of Cian's delusion—or a mirror of her mind starting to crack.
Cian suddenly stood up. "I remembered something else."
Alra tensed. "What?"
"A painting. A woman's face. But her eyes... were empty. As if she didn't recognize anyone."
Silence.
That painting was real. Alra knew it. She had painted it—years ago, after Ares disappeared. But she had never shown it to anyone. Never photographed it. Never posted it anywhere.
"How do you know that?" she whispered.
Cian looked down. "Maybe I saw it somewhere else. Or maybe... I was once part of your life."
Alra held her breath. This time, not out of fear. But because her heart was beating too fast—too hard, like it wanted to burst out of her chest.
She ended the session early. But as soon as Cian left and the door closed, Alra trembled. Her hand reached for a small box hidden in the drawer.
The box contained:• A piece of cloth. Dark in color—either red or brown. She couldn't tell.• A small brooch. In the shape of a closed eye.• A photo of Ares, torn. Only half of his face remained—the other half gone. Like the truth that always hung in limbo.
She touched the photo, and like rain in the wrong season, memories began to spill one by one.
Night. Heavy rain. Crying. Bleeding hands. Ares looking at her. His final words: "You've learned to love, Alra. But not to lose."
***
That night, her phone lit up. An unknown number.
"Therapy doesn't just heal. It can also kill."
Alra froze. She was about to block the number, but at that moment... the screen flickered. A second message arrived.
"You've repeated the same story. Now it's your turn to confess."
Her hand trembled. She got up, checked the apartment door. Locked. She opened the window curtain. Empty. But her heart screamed: someone was watching.
And then...
On the table, the small box was open. Its contents... scattered. Even though she had locked it earlier. Ares's torn photo—Now... whole.