Chapter 48 – Fragments of the Past
The nights continued to be torture for Alexander. Every time he closed his eyes, Helena appeared in his dreams: sometimes fleeing from him, sometimes looking at him with hatred, sometimes simply disappearing before his eyes, leaving him alone in an endless void.
That morning, he woke with a scream stuck in his throat. Sweat soaked his shirt, and his breath came in short spasms. His heart felt like it was about to burst. He sat up in bed, resting his face in his hands, murmuring:
"What's happening to me?"
The clock on the wall read four in the morning. Alexander tried to get up, but staggered to the armchair in the bedroom, where he sat silently, staring into space.
The next morning, Isabella noticed his condition. His neat suit was there, as always, but his eyes betrayed exhaustion: red, sunken, shadowed.
"Alexander…" she began cautiously. "This won't go away on its own."
He frowned.
"What are you implying?"
"That you need help. That you need to talk to someone… again." Isabella kept her tone firm but careful. "There's no point in pretending. You're breaking inside, and I'm not going to stand by and watch it happen."
Alexander looked away. He wanted to respond coldly, as he always did, but his voice faltered.
"I thought I was over it… Helena, the past, all of it. But it seems the more I try to forget, the stronger it comes back."
Isabella moved closer, touching his shoulder.
"Then stop trying to forget. Understand. Only then will you free yourself."
There was silence. Alexander took a deep breath, fighting the pride that always prevented him from admitting weakness. Until he murmured,
"Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to… go back to the psychologist."
Isabella smiled slightly.
"It's the first step."
\### Cut to scene
While Alexander struggled with his inner ghosts in Prague, Oliver faced his own demons from the past.
He sat in the guest room of Helena's apartment. His sister slept in the bedroom, exhausted after the trip, but he couldn't rest. Something had been burning in his mind since the moment he had shaken William's hand.
That feeling of familiarity wouldn't leave him alone.
Determined, Oliver opened the old suitcase he had brought from the United States. Inside were old photo albums, kept since childhood. He began to leaf through the pages, looking at images yellowed with age: he and Helena as children, his parents at family parties, short trips.
For a moment, a nostalgic smile escaped him. But then something caught his eye.
In a group photo, taken when he was about 12 or 13, there was a face he didn't fully recognize. A young man, maybe 14, standing in the background. He wasn't smiling. His eyes stared into the camera with an intensity unusual for someone so young.
Oliver frowned, running his finger over the boy's face in the photo.
"Who... who are you?" he murmured.
He turned the page, and there was the same face, in another photo. Always in the background, always watching. As if he didn't belong, but was always there.
Oliver's heart raced. He knew that look. He didn't know from where, but he knew.
And then, like a flash of lightning, a name flashed through his mind.
"William..." he whispered, his breath caught.
A shiver ran down his spine. It didn't make sense, but the intuition was overwhelming. That boy in the photos, that look that now inhabited a grown man... it was William's.
With anger and fear mingling, Oliver ripped the photo from the album and tore it across the young man's face. He tucked the piece into his pocket, as if it were proof of something he still couldn't explain.
"Who are you, William?" he said softly, almost like an oath. "And why does it feel like you've been in my life forever?"
\### Back to Alexander
That afternoon, Alexander entered his psychologist's office, a minimalist, silent space that contrasted with the chaos within him.
The psychologist greeted him with a friendly wave.
"It's good to see you again, Alexander. Please sit down."
Alexander took a deep breath and began to talk. About the dreams, about the feeling of emptiness, about Helena's constant presence in his mind.
"I don't understand," he said, his voice breaking. "I tried to be everything for her. I did everything. But in the end, I only pushed her away. And now, even after all this time, she still haunts me."
The psychologist folded his hands.
"Alexander, you need to understand that what you feel isn't just about Helena. She was a symbol. The symbol of your obsession, of your need for control, of your difficulty accepting that you can't control everything."
"But I didn't hurt her," Alexander countered. "I never wanted that."
"I know. But sometimes, suffocating is a way of hurting. What you feel now isn't just longing. It's guilt. Guilt for not having known how to love healthily."
Alexander lowered his head. For the first time in a long time, he didn't have a ready answer. Only silence.
The psychologist continued:
"The way forward isn't to forget, Alexander. It's to accept. And to understand that if you want to start over, you need to allow yourself to feel without trying to control it."
The words echoed in his mind. For the first time, Alexander admitted to himself that perhaps the problem had never been Helena, nor Dante, nor the past. Perhaps the problem had always been him.
\### In Prague
Oliver didn't sleep that night. He sat staring at the torn piece of the photo. The boy's absent face tormented him.
He knew he had to find out more. He knew William wasn't just "Helena's fiancé." It couldn't be a coincidence.
The thought was crystal clear: William was there much earlier than Helena had imagined.
And Oliver, determined, put the proof in his pocket. He was willing to discover the truth—no matter the cost.