Chapter 8: Between Dread and Hope

Chapter 8: Between Dread and Hope
The languid noon light slipped through the thick curtains, carving long stripes across the wooden floor, thickening the air inside the room. I had just returned from lunch in the dining hall; my stomach still felt heavy. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I let the faint heat of the afternoon cling to my skin, listening to the clock tick—each sound like a hammer striking into silence that had lasted too long.

Half an hour later, the door clicked open. My father entered, followed by a man in his fifties—hair flecked with silver, a slightly worn suit, and the look of someone who had been weathered by stories that were not his own. He carried a leather case, his steps slow and deliberate, as though he weighed every one. His eyes were deep, steady, and not without warmth; in them was the kind of experience only earned by facing countless sorrows of others.

Father came closer to the bed, lowering his voice as though delivering a verdict:
— Elysa, this is a psychologist. He’ll help you recover your memories.

From his lips, those four words—“recover your memories”—fell like a stone dropped into icy water. The world around me seemed to shrink. I forced a smile that cracked at the corners, but my throat was too dry to sound convincing.
— No… I don’t want to see anyone. Please take him out, I said, my voice firmer than I felt.

Father hesitated, then sat down beside me. His hand, warm yet trembling with worry, pressed gently on my shoulder.
— My girl, calm down. The doctor will help you. Don’t be afraid.

Heat surged to my face. I felt like an animal ready to shatter its cage. The words burst out of me like instinct:
— I’m not sick. I don’t need treatment!

The man set his case on the carpet and unlatched it, producing papers and a pen. He stepped closer, his voice soft but assured:
— Miss Elysa, I understand your confusion. I’m here to support you, not to force you. We can begin with the smallest things.

His gaze flicked toward my father—a silent signal. My father nodded, patted my shoulder once more, and quietly left, shutting the door with the finality of a seal. The room contracted, leaving only our breaths and the faint scratch of his pen against paper.

He drew out a stack of forms, slipping into routine: professional, measured, practiced.
— Do you often dream of something recurring?
— Recently, have you felt lost or struggled to recall familiar names?

Each question pricked like a needle against my skin. Each word sparked static in my skull until my thoughts tangled like a disturbed beehive. The restraint snapped. I shouted:
— Stop it! Don’t come near me!

The doctor froze for a beat, still calm, his tone lowered as if soothing a frightened animal. But I wouldn’t stop. My hand lashed out, grabbing whatever was near—a pillow hurled against the wall, a picture frame shattering in a cascade of glass that glittered like snow. The noise tore through the hall, summoning footsteps rushing toward us.

I clutched my head, feigning a violent ache, groaning, half-blinded. The room had turned into a wreckage: bedclothes twisted, the tablecloth yanked askew, shards of glass catching stray sunlight in jagged sparks.

The door flew open. My parents rushed in, their faces pale with panic. Mother stumbled toward me, gathering me in her arms as though I might vanish. Her tears dampened my hair, her sobs raw and childlike. Father exchanged a glance with the doctor—an unspoken agreement—before guiding him out, closing the door behind them. Through it all, the doctor’s face remained professionally composed, though I caught in his eyes a flicker of unease, the kind that knows words can wound deeper than they heal.

In my mother’s embrace, I softened—deliberately. My body slackened, my breathing slowed, and I let the pretense of sleep descend easily, giving her space to stroke my hair and whisper my name as though calling me back from a nightmare. My eyelids stayed shut, but within, my mind stayed sharp.

When the sound of footsteps faded and the door closed again, silence returned. A servant slipped in to clear the chaos, folding sheets, sweeping glass, restoring order as if nothing had happened. The quiet that followed was the hollow quiet of wealthy houses after a storm—polished, staged, unconvincing.

I lay still, counting breaths until I was certain the corridor was empty. Then I slid my hand under the blanket like a thief, fingers brushing against the hidden phone. The screen lit up, flooding the dim room with cold light. Dozens of missed calls and messages from Kristine flashed back at me. My chest tightened.

With trembling hands, I called her back. I pressed the phone against my ear, covered my mouth, and whispered as if sound might leak through the cracks of the door.
— Hello?

Kristine’s voice rushed in, urgent, dry:
— Elysa, I’ve uncovered quite a lot about Kael. But I can’t say it over the phone—it’s too dangerous.

A weight like stone pressed against my ribs. I couldn’t hold back.
— Tell me, Kristine. Don’t circle around.

There was a pause—too long—then her voice came lower, firmer:
— All right. I’ll come to you. We need to talk in person.

The call ended. The abrupt silence was a blade cleaving the fragile ground beneath me. I sat frozen, fingers brushing against a small photograph tucked in the drawer—a picture of Kael and me, smiling with a kind of innocence that already felt antique. I lifted my gaze to the window. The midday sky had turned gray, clouds gathering like they were preparing to weep.

Questions lined up in my mind like soldiers: What had Kristine discovered? Why couldn’t it be spoken over the phone—was someone listening, was Kael watching? A different fear spread inside me, not of dying, but of being abandoned amidst secrets with no answers.

I stayed still, eyes locked on the horizon, clinging to the fragile dream of normalcy: a whole body, Kael’s familiar smile, quiet days, and a wedding waiting just ahead. But inside, the fragments of glass from earlier still rang in my head, refusing to let me sleep in peace.

Far off, I caught the hum of cars passing on the street, then—distinctly—the sound of an engine slowing before the gate. My heart jolted. My body reacted before my mind could. Kristine was coming—wasn’t she? The wait stretched taut, a thread suspended between dread and hope.

I pressed the phone against my ear one last time, whispering to myself like a vow: Whatever happens, this time I won’t stay blind. I will know. I have to know.