The sky outside the therapy room bled into dusk, casting the walls in hues of copper and bruised lavender. Lena sat alone now. Dr. Rowe had left her with a promise—"We'll face this together"—but the silence that filled the room after her departure was louder than any comfort.
Lena didn't move. Couldn't.
The chair beneath her felt like it had grown roots, anchoring her to a memory she no longer wanted to dig up.
Her fingers twitched against her lap. The sensation was faint at first, like static. Then sharper. She looked down.
Ash.
IT WAS ONLY A DREAM
Only a dream.
But the scent of smoke—sweet, thick, and suffocating—clung to her hair like a ghost that had forgotten how to let go.
Suddenly, Lena was no longer in the chair.
She was there again.
Not in a flash. Not a blur. There.
The closet door was cracked just enough to let in a sliver of flickering orange light. Her breath came shallow and rapid. Her pulse throbbed in her ears like a warning drumbeat. She could hear her mother's voice screaming her name, but it sounded distant, like it was being swallowed by the fire itself.
And then—
That laugh.
Low. Drawn out. Unnatural.
It slid through the smoke like oil over water. Thick. Unsettling. A man's voice—but wrong. Amused. In control.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. The closet door creaked open further, revealing a glimpse of the hallway. Flames licked the wallpaper. Black smoke curled along the ceiling like serpents.
And there—just past the scorched doorway—stood a shadow.
He turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
She saw eyes. Pale. Almost white. And a grin that stretched too wide for a human face.
Then something heavy was in her hands.
Metal. Cold. Familiar.
A fire poker.
She raised it.
She didn't remember choosing to do so. It was like watching someone else wearing her skin.
The shadow laughed again—closer this time.
She swung.
She screamed.
And the memory shattered.
Lena jerked upright, a gasp tearing from her throat. Her chest heaved, sweat dampening her back. The therapy room had faded. She was in her apartment now. Alone. The silence buzzed.
She stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink as she stared into the mirror.
Her reflection stared back with wild eyes rimmed in red. Her pupils dilated, hair stuck to her damp cheeks.
"Was that memory… real?"
Was it hers?
She leaned in.
The face in the mirror didn't look afraid.
It looked furious.
The next session arrived too soon.
Dr. Rowe studied her as Lena sat down. Not with the mild curiosity of a therapist, but with something sharper. More alert.
"You look tired," Dr. Rowe said gently.
"I dreamed again," Lena murmured, voice hoarse.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Lena looked away. "There was… a weapon. A fire poker. I—he was laughing. I think I hit him."
Dr. Rowe paused. "Do you remember who he was?"
Lena's throat tightened. Her fingernails dug into her palm. "No. But I remember his eyes. They weren't… human."
Dr. Rowe frowned. "Lena, trauma can distort—"
"No," Lena snapped, louder than intended.
"No. This wasn't distortion. This felt real. Like… I've been watching a lie all this time. And now the truth is clawing its way out."
Dr. Rowe remained composed, but Lena noticed the faintest flicker in her eyes. Fear?
"I'm starting to remember," Lena whispered.
"And it's not just fear I feel. It's rage."
Dr. Rowe leaned forward. "Rage toward whom?"
Lena met her gaze, and something unspoken passed between them—dark, electric, and dangerous.
"I don't know yet," she said, "but I think I used to."
That night, Lena found herself outside the burned remains of her childhood home.
She hadn't planned to go. Her feet had carried her while her mind drifted. The house stood like a corpse, blackened ribs of wood and charred foundation bones.
She stepped past the caution tape.
[Crunch Crunch]
Ash crunched beneath her boots.
Every breath was heavy with soot and memory.
As she approached what once was the living room, she stopped. The wind whispered through broken beams, carrying voices that didn't belong to this world.
Her name.
Soft.
Over and over.
"Lena. Lena. Lena."
The fire had taken everything, but it hadn't taken this.
A presence still lingered.
And in that moment, she no longer feared remembering.
She feared what remembering would awaken.
She didn't know how long she stood there, staring into the skeletal ruins of the house, but time didn't seem to move. It was as if the fire had scorched even the clocks into silence.
Her legs trembled—not from cold, but from something deeper. Something primal.
It wasn't just fear now.
It was recognition.
The floorboards beneath her boots gave slightly, moaning in protest. But she moved forward anyway, toward what had once been the heart of the house. The place where her mother used to hum while folding laundry. Where her little brother used to line up toy soldiers in crooked rows. The place where laughter had once lived.
But there was no laughter here anymore.
Only echoes.
Only her name.
"Lena…"
The whisper came again.
This time, she didn't flinch.
It was inside her now—the voice. Like breath behind her ear. Like a memory coiled too tightly in her ribs, ready to snap.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting skin. She stepped into what was once the living room, and the scent hit her again—burned wood, melted plastic, and the faintest trace of something metallic and wet.
Blood?
She didn't know.
But her body remembered.
A flash.
A scream.
That laughter—twisting like smoke through her veins.
And then—
A mirror. Not in the house. In her mind.
She was standing before it. The girl she used to be. The child. Small. Fragile. But her eyes—those eyes weren't afraid.
They were cold.
Calculating.
She reached out to touch the mirror and the girl on the other side did too. But instead of glass, her hand met skin. Warm. Alive.
The girl was her. Not a memory. Not a dream.
She blinked, and the image shattered.
Back to the house.
Back to the ruin.
Her knees gave out, and she dropped into the ash with a hollow thud, coughing as the dust rose around her like ghosts.
And then she wept.
But not like before—not soft, broken sobs.
This was rage made liquid.
She screamed into the empty space, the sound ripping from her throat like it had been caged for years. It bounced off the walls, warped by ruin. It was not the cry of a victim. It was a howl of something reborn.
"I DIDN'T RUN!" she screamed into the rubble.
"I DIDN'T HIDE!"
The words fell from her lips before she knew they were hers.
"I TRIED TO STOP HIM! I TRIED!"
Her breath came in ragged gasps. She clutched her chest, as though something inside her was clawing its way out.
And then—
A vision.
She was back in the hallway, heat blistering the air. The figure, the man, loomed over someone—small. Her brother. Cowering.
And she had the poker.
Her hands gripped it so tightly her knuckles cracked. And she swung.
Again.
And again.
Until the laughter stopped.
Until everything went black.
Lena sat in the ashes, her arms wrapped around her knees.
"I-I think…. I killed him,"
she whispered, voice hoarse.
"Not the fire. Not the smoke. ME."
But then—another voice answered her.
Low. Faint.
"Good."
She froze.
The voice hadn't come from outside.
It had come from within.