A Path to Peace

The old wooden floorboards of the therapist's office creaked beneath my feet, a familiar sound that had, over the past few months, become a kind of sonic balm. Dr. Anya Sharma’s office was a sanctuary of muted colours and soft light, a stark contrast to the jagged edges of my own interior landscape. She sat opposite me, her gaze steady, her presence a quiet anchor in the turbulent sea of my memories. Today, the waves felt particularly rough, pulling me back to a place I’d tried so desperately to outrun.

“It’s the dreams again,” I confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush before I could censor them. “The same ones. The field. The wind. And the… the hand.” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The phantom touch, always just out of reach, a fleeting caress that felt more like a brand.

Dr. Sharma nodded, her pen hovering over her notepad. “Tell me about the hand, if you can.”