Rain poured heavily as Alra arrived on campus. Water dripped from the edge of her umbrella, merging with the storm of thoughts that refused to settle. She hugged her notebook tightly, as if it could hold back all the memories trying to spill out.
The practice room felt colder than usual. There was no aroma therapy. No background music. Just stagnant air hanging like a dense fog.
A few minutes before the next session started, she sat still, twirling a pen between her fingers. One question had haunted her mind since yesterday:
How did Cian know about that painting?
It wasn't a common delusion. It was too specific. Too deep to be just imagination.
A knock on the door.
"Come in," Alra's voice sounded calmer than she felt.
Cian entered. This time his face looked a little brighter, but his eyes still carried the same shadow—the shadow of someone who knew more than they should.
"Good morning," he greeted. "Today I want to talk about colors."
Alra straightened up. "Colors?"
"Yes," Cian sat down, staring at the blank wall behind Alra. "There are five colors I can't see. But I know they're real. They're... hiding something."
"Are you color blind?" Alra asked, trying to stay objective.
Cian smiled faintly. "Not medically. But psychologically, maybe yes. These five colors... appear in my dreams. Every time I try to recall someone's face."
Alra jotted that down quickly.
"Do these colors have names?"
"No. But I gave them forms."
He raised five fingers, one by one.
"One, the color of wounds. Two, the color of sound. Three, the color of loss. Four, the color of secrets. And lastly... the color of you."
His fifth finger pointed straight at Alra.
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Are you sure these aren't just metaphors?"
"Everything is a metaphor, doc," Cian said softly. "But they're also codes. Codes for something I want to remember. Or maybe... something I want to hide."
Alra stood up. She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a small box filled with color cards. She had dozens, maybe hundreds, because as a painter—even a color-blind one—she memorized every gradient in her own system.
She handed the box to Cian. "Try to show me those colors."
Cian looked at the cards. His hand touched a few, but hesitated.
"They're not here. All these colors are too... ordinary."
Alra held her breath. "But you can recognize them in your dreams?"
"Yes. One of them... appeared last night. I was standing in a dark corridor. There was a painting hanging on the wall. A portrait of a woman. Her eyes were hollow, but the surroundings glowed. Like they were burning."
"Have you ever seen that painting before?"
Cian shook his head. "But I know who painted it."
"Who?"
"Me."
Alra froze. Her hands trembled. The color cards slipped from her fingers and scattered on the floor like fragments of memories she could no longer contain.
***
That night, Alra stared at herself in the mirror. Behind her eyes, something had cracked. Every word from Cian made her feel like a glass doll—finely fractured, but deep within.
She opened her secret cabinet. Inside were rolls of old canvas. One of them was painted in thick oil. A portrait of a long-haired woman. Hollow eyes. Fire all around.
It wasn't Cian's work. It was hers.
But how could Cian describe that painting in such detail?
Her phone vibrated. One new message.
"You painted with blood, Alra. But who did you kill?"
Her hand shook. She wanted to call someone, but didn't know who. The world seemed to shrink. Her breathing grew heavier.
***
The next morning, she met her colleague, Mr. Seno.
"You look pale, Ra. Need a break?"
"No. I'm just... sleep-deprived."
"Then be careful. Cian... he's an odd patient. There were reports before, he was referred to other psychiatrists. Then he vanished. Only now he's shown up again."
Alra swallowed hard. "He never mentioned that."
Mr. Seno nodded. "Maybe... because he's not an ordinary patient."
***
In the next session, Cian arrived with a painting. It was wrapped in gray cloth.
"I tried to paint that dream," he said, handing it to Alra.
She slowly unwrapped it.
Her eyes widened.
The painting was identical to the one she had hidden at home. Identical.
"How did you paint this?" her voice was almost a whisper.
"I don't know. My hands moved on their own."
"You're sure you've never seen this painting before?"
"The only place I've seen it... is in that one corridor in my mind. But I think... you were there too."