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Ernest faced Reginald, his appearance bearing the marks of a night tormented by the unraveling of his deepest fears and the echo of betrayal. His lips were dry, and the shadows beneath his eyes bore witness to a night devoid of rest.

Reginald sat at his writing table, the very picture of composure, his head propped by his hand, his gaze sharp and discerning as it fixed upon Ernest.

"Yes," Reginald commented, his voice reflecting a note of academic interest, "it is indeed a curious case of psychical phenomena."

The reality of the previous evening's events weighed heavily on Ernest. He struggled to articulate his experience, his words faltering as if he were recovering from a physical blow.

"It felt so vivid, so terribly real," Ernest conveyed with effort. "It's as if I've lost a part of myself, a thought I can't grasp anymore, something that was trying to surface..."

Reginald observed him with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying an intriguing specimen.

"My dear boy," Reginald said with a calm that belied the gravity of the situation, "I hold no grudge against you for this bizarre illusion of yours. Jack has briefed me on the sequence of events. It seems there have been moments in your past that hinted at the brink of a nervous breakdown."

Ernest absorbed these words, each one resonating with the grim undertone of a diagnosis far more severe than what was being spoken. A "nervous collapse"—the phrase seemed nothing more than a polite evasion, a veiled reference to the looming specter of madness that now seemed to cast its shadow over his life.

Reginald's voice was soothing, and he touched upon Ernest's condition with an almost paternal tone. "Don't lose hope, my dear boy," he said gently. "Your situation isn't beyond repair. Every writer experiences such moments. It's the price we pay for our dedication to the muses. In days gone by, minnesingers might have composed with the ink of their heart's blood; today, we moderns draw from the essence of our very nerves. We dissect life and dissect our passions, and the scalpel that lays open the souls of others eventually turns upon ourselves.

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"But what is to be done? Should we abandon the pursuit of art for the sake of well-being, and forsake the singular trait that elevates us above all creatures? Animals think, some even walk upright. Yet it is self-reflection that distinguishes humanity. Are we to forego the profound self-awareness born from introspection for the mere contentment of a ruminating bull or the blissful ignorance of a mule?"

"Of course not," came Ernest's response, albeit weak.

"What then should one do?"

"That I cannot prescribe," Reginald admitted. "Mathematics presents us with precise problems and solutions. Life, however, is not so straightforward. It poses questions ambiguously and offers varied solutions. The constants of today may shift by tomorrow. Every new attempt to understand the mind yields a different outcome. Yet, in your case, the diagnosis is clear. You've exhausted yourself mentally and emotionally, and unrest has been the seed you've planted. It's no wonder that neurasthenia has taken root."

Ernest, his voice wavering, asked, "Do you think I should seek rest at a sanitarium?"

"Not at all," Reginald quickly reassured. "What you need is a change of scene. Head to the shore, where you can experience rest and recreation. Bring yourself, but leave the weight of your thoughts behind. Or at least take only what's necessary. The season at Atlantic City is just beginning. And remember, in American social circles, you're often more appreciated if you arrive without the burden of too many thoughts."

Reginald's words, tinted with a playful sarcasm, offered Ernest a shard of comfort. Hesitantly, he edged closer to the unnerving incident that had thrown his mental composure into chaos.

"What do you make of my bizarre fixation—it's bordering on an obsession, isn't it?"

"It wouldn't be so bizarre if we could pin it down."

"But isn't there any explanation you can think of?"

"It could've been a random paper lying around on my desk with whispers of the story, an offhand comment—could be anything, right? Maybe thoughts just float through the ether like mist. Maybe—but talking about it now would only stir you up again for no good reason."

"You're right," Ernest responded, his voice heavy with gloom. "Let's drop it. But no matter how you slice it, that play is something else."

"You're giving me too much credit. There's nothing there you couldn't pull off yourself—one of these days."

Ernest lifted his gaze to Reginald, eyes filled with awe. "No way, man. You’re on your own level—you're the maestro."