06:05

The figure steps closer, its features still obscured by a haze that thickens the air around us. I strain to see, but the details slip away like smoke.

Who are you?

I should know. I should remember.

"Dr. Reyes,"

it says again, the voice a blend of familiarity and estrangement, a tether pulling at the edge of my consciousness. But I shake my head, trying to clear the fog.

"I’m not ready."

Am I talking to myself? To a patient?

The room spins slightly, and the sterile scent of antiseptic sharpens. I clutch the edge of my desk to steady myself.

06:10

The figure watches, waiting, as I bring my gaze back to the chaotic spread of patient files before me. The names blur, the details slip into the abyss of my mind. One file stands out, its cover worn and frayed, a haunting reminder of Elena. I flip it open, desperate for clarity. Inside, scribbles of my own handwriting jump out at me, chaotic and frantic.

“The mind can deceive. What does it mean to heal?”

What does it mean to heal?

The question lingers, twisting in my gut like a vine tightening its grip.

06:15

I glance back at the figure. It shifts, its form becoming more defined, yet just as unsettling.

"Who are you?"

I ask again, my voice barely above a whisper. It steps closer, the air crackling between us as if charged with electricity.

“You must confront your truth.”

The words resonate in my chest, sending a shiver down my spine. A flash of memory: shadows flickering in a hidden lab, sterile and cold.

06:20

I push the thought aside and focus on the present, on the figure before me. It feels familiar yet alien, every detail a riddle. I try to remember why I’m here, what I must face. I blink rapidly, fighting the sensation of slipping away.

"You're me,"

I realise, my breath hitching.

“A part of me I refuse to acknowledge."

The figure's lips curl into an unsettling smile, but it remains silent, as if waiting for me to unravel the truth on my own.

06:25

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

Clarity breaks like glass, sharp and sudden. The memories crash back—patients, voices, the weight of responsibility.

My work, my life—what was?

I was a healer, a guide. But now my purpose feels tainted, and I am adrift in a sea of guilt and regret. The clock ticks on, relentless, mocking. A patient’s file catches my eye. I reach for it, trembling fingers skimming the cover. The name feels too intimate, too personal.

Emily.

06:30

The name pulls me under like a riptide, dragging me deeper into memories I’ve tried to bury. Emily was a young girl, her bright eyes filled with a haunting sadness. I had failed her—at least, that’s what I told myself after the incident. The guilt festers, a relentless ache that gnaws at the edges of my sanity. The figure shifts again, its expression turning to one of pity.

Pity or disdain?

I can’t tell anymore.

"You could have saved her,"

it whispers, a soft reminder of the past. But I didn’t.

06:35

I slam the file shut, desperation flooding my veins.

“Stop it!”

I shout, the words tearing from my throat, raw and primal. The figure recoils, fading slightly into the background.

"Face your memories, Elena,"

it murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby, yet laced with a darkness that wraps around me like a shroud.

06:40

Suddenly, the office door swings open, the bright lights flooding in. The figure vanishes, and I’m left gasping, disoriented, my heart racing. A nurse stands at the doorway, her expression neutral, but her eyes are probing, searching.

“Dr. Reyes, are you alright?”

I nod, swallowing hard.

“Yes, just... a moment.”

But as she steps back, her features ripple, and for a second, I see Emily’s face staring back at me, eyes wide with fear.

06:45

The vision vanishes as quickly as it appeared. I blink, the nurse’s concerned voice pulling me back. “You have a patient waiting.”

“Of course,”

I stammer.

Get it together, Elena.

I sit up straighter, forcing that smile that feels like a mask once more.

“Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

06:50

As she walks away, I glance back at the file on my desk, the name Emily burning into my mind like a wound that refuses to close. I can’t escape this. I can’t outrun the shadows that crawl beneath my skin, tightening their grip around my thoughts. Her eyes haunt me—empty, accusing. You let me die, they seem to say.

I try to breathe, but the air sticks in my throat, heavy and rancid, as if the room itself has turned against me. Each inhale drags against my lungs like broken glass, cutting deeper into the hollow space where control once lived. I am Dr. Elena Reyes. I have patients. Responsibilities. But the words feel hollow, a refrain I cling to in desperate defiance of the truth I refuse to face.

With every step toward my next appointment, the floor beneath me threatens to give way, the walls pressing closer until they feel like hands at my throat. Her name remains a piercing reminder in my mind, sharp and relentless, carving into the fragile threads of my composure. I failed her. I know I failed her.

“You should have saved me,”

She whispers in the hollow spaces of my mind, her voice a jagged knife that twists with every syllable. The truth I’ve buried festers beneath the surface, raw and putrid, leaking into every corner of my being. It suffocates me, mocks me, strips away the mask I force myself to wear, the smile that I feign complacently, hiding the turmoil roiling just below the surface. I am not composed. I am not in control, and beneath the cracks, there is nothing but darkness.

06:55

The hospital corridors stretch before me, each step echoing in my mind.

Who is the patient? Who is the doctor?

The questions swirl like smoke, and with each moment, I feel the walls closing in.

Something is waiting.

Something is always waiting.

And it wears my face.