Chapter 71 The Petals

Chapter 71 The Petals
♤YASMIN♤

"Excellent. Please lie back on the treatment bed over there and let your arms rest naturally at your sides," she says, standing up to adjust the dimmers on the lamps until the room sinks into a soft, golden glow.

I move to the bed, letting myself relax into its softness, though my heart won’t stop beating nervously.

Dr. Petra sits on a stool near the head of the bed, moving in a way that feels almost sacred.

“Close your eyes. I want you to focus on the rhythm of your breathing. Don't try to force anything. Just inhale deeply... and let the breath carry away the tension in your shoulders as you exhale."

I follow her instructions, breathing in the calm air of the room.

"Now, listen only to the sound of my voice," she continues, her tone dropping into something soothing.

“Imagine a warm relaxation starting at the very top of your head, slowly melting down over your forehead, your jaw, and into your chest. With every word I say, you are walking down a flight of ten steps.”

My breathing slows as she begins counting.

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Let go of the present. Six. Five..."

At the count of one, the room slowly disappears. The weight of my physical body slips away, and the darkness behind my eyes begins to swirl into a burst of colors.

Suddenly, I am standing outside.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement, fresh acrylic paint, and wet soil.

I look down at my hands. They are small, unmanicured, and my fingertips are stained with thick smudges of dark blue and white oil paint.

I am sitting on a small, rusty metal stool right in front of a building. In front of me stands a tall wooden easel holding a half-finished canvas.

I am painting. No wonder I miraculously know how to paint. It turns out it’s what I've been doing since I was a kid.

My chest feels tight with a familiar ache of hunger and a deep sense of financial struggle.

Right next to my easel are large plastic buckets of fresh flowers lined up on the sidewalk. Bright, oversized sunflowers, wet red roses, and bundles of wild lavender are overflowing from the tubs, their sweet fragrance mixing with the chemical tang of my turpentine.

This was my life. I was a struggling artist, completely broke, trying to survive on a sidewalk.

A desperate hunger flares in my gut. I need to know where I am. That’s the only way I can get quick answers.

I turn my head slowly toward the storefront behind me, my eyes tracking upward toward the old wooden sign hanging above the door. The letters are blurry in the afternoon light.

But I stay focused until the font begins to clear slowly.

The... P...

"Take a deep breath, Yasmin. We are stopping here. Come back to the room."

The image shatters instantly. The sidewalk, the canvas, and the flowers dissolve into thin air.

My eyes snap open, the bright light of the room hitting my face and making my head throb with a sharp ache.

"Why did you stop?!" I demand, scrambling up to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I was right there! I was about to look up at the shop name! I was seconds away from an important clue about my identity!"

Dr. Petra remains perfectly calm, her hands resting on her lap as she watches me.

"Your pulse jumped to a hundred and thirty-five beats per minute, Yasmin. Your breathing became shallow, and your fingers were physically twitching."

"I don't care about my pulse!" I shout, tears of frustration forming at the corners of my eyes.

"You don't understand. I saw myself. I need to go back under right now."

"Absolutely not," Dr. Petra says firmly.

“That is more than enough for our first session. Clinical regression requires strict boundaries. If we force too many suppressed memories onto the brain all at once, it can trigger severe psychological rejection or a panic attack. Your neural pathways need time to integrate what you just saw. We will continue next week."

"Next week is too late," I whisper, my voice shaking as I slide off the bed.

"I don't have a week."

"You must stay in the present for now, Grace," she says, handing me a small cup of water.

"Go home, rest, and let the fragments settle naturally. There is a chance more memories will emerge, but don’t force it or it will backfire.”

I leave the clinic ten minutes later. I walk down the sidewalk, the cold Illinois air biting at my cheeks, oblivious to the pedestrians rushing past me.

Was I living a struggling life? Was I just a poor artist selling paintings outside a flower shop? Who am I?

The questions burn through my brain.

With everything going on right now, I can't wait seven days. I need answers today.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, my fingers typing quickly across the screen as I search online. I type in a simple description of the memory: flower shop, brick building, cracked concrete sidewalk, artist setup outside.

Then I type in the words I remember before Dr. Petra decides that’s the best time to jolt me back to this harsh reality.

The search page spins for a few seconds, though to me it feels like forever. Then it spits out four different locations and pictures of flower shops.

I scroll through the results, my breath catching as I tap on the third image.

The store looks very different and modernized now, but when I click on the street-view images from five years ago, my heart stops.

There it is.

The rusty metal pole where my stool sat and the building exactly as it was in my memory. And written clearly on the old banner is the name: The Petals.

The moment the words hit my eyes, a sharp pain shoots through my temple. I let out a loud scream, clutching my head as the ground seems to tilt beneath me.

A few passersby stop, throwing me worried looks.

The pain triggers another flash of memory. Suddenly, I see myself laughing sitting across from a young girl with messy ginger hair.

Her face is blurry in the memory, but her name echoes clearly in the back of my mind.

Ginger.

I gasp for air, the pain slowly fading into a surge of joy. I look back down at the screen, and thankfully the address is there. It is just a twenty-minute drive from where I am currently standing.

I slide the phone into my pocket and stop a yellow taxi, which pulls up to the side of the road immediately.

I push the door open and slide into the backseat, my body humming with excitement.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

“Take me to The Petals flower store on Oak Street,” I order.

I look at my reflection in the window, and a small smile appears on my lips as the car zooms into traffic.

“The Petals, Ginger... here I come.”