A beat of silence follows.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Good. Walk forward. One step at a time. You’re not in a rush. At the end of the hallway is a door. Behind that door are memories youhaven’t been able to reach. Memories you’re ready to see now. When you’re standing at the door, tell me.”
Arianette swallows, throat moving. Her fingers twitch once on her knee, then still.
“I’m there.”
My stomach tightens. Hunter straightens beside me.
Sy lowers his voice even more, “When you’re ready, open the door.”
A breath leaves her like she’s falling.
“Okay,” she says, voice distant. “I… I’m opening it.”
The room goes still.
We’re in it now.
Arianette’s breath hitches, then steadies into that strange, distant cadence people get when their mind isn’t fully here. “I’m… walking out of dance class,” she says. Her voice sounds younger—softer. “It’s a sunny day. My legs ache, but… in a good way. The kind that tells me I did my best in class. That my teacher will be happy with me.”
Sy nods, guiding her with a quiet, “Good, Arianette. Stay with that feeling. What else do you see?”
“The studio is only two blocks from my house,” she continues. “Uncle Owen lets me walk there alone.” A faint, dreamy smile flickers across her lips. “I love that. I like the freedom. I feel… big.”
Her fingers twitch in her lap. She’s not looking at any of us, eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere far from this room.
“Students pass me,” she murmurs. “Talking about homework… about lunch… someone’s wearing too much perfume, I can smell it.” Her head tilts slightly. “There’s a man across the street whistling. Maybe at me… maybe at someone else. I can’t tell. Everything’s kind of… fuzzy.”
Sy keeps his tone calm, grounding. “You’re doing great. Stay with the memory.”
She draws in a shaky breath. “Someone bumps into me.”
My spine goes rigid.
“It’s like–like a chain reaction,” she says. “One person pushes past, then another, and then… someone else walks up.”
The air shifts. Even Hunter feels it—I see him straighten beside me.
Arianette’s brow tightens. “They’re standing in front of me. But the sun is behind them. Too bright. I can’t… I can’t see anything. Just an outline.” Her breathing accelerates. “It’s so bright. I’m squinting—my eyes are watering?—”
Sy leans in a fraction. “That’s okay, Arianette. You’re safe here. You’re just remembering. Can you see their face?”
Her hands curl against the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening.
“No,” she says, almost frustrated. “It’s—it's like… a shadow. The sunlight is—it's blinding.”
“Is it a man or a woman?” Sy asks gently.
Arianette flinches. Her breath quickens, fast and uneven–the sound of someone slipping from recollection into panic.
“I don’t know. I can’t–” She swallows hard. “I can’t tell. They’re just… there.”
Her chest rises too fast, too shallow. The air in the room changes, pulling tight.
I push off the wall without even realizing I’ve moved, muscles locking in place as I watch her struggle. Every instinct in me–every one of those prison-earned reflexes–screams to yank her out, pull her close, and stop whatever the hell she’s seeing.
