Damn it! I was supposed to meet Miss Laya.
It felt as though the ground had suddenly slipped out from beneath my feet. My thoughts collided violently with one another, leaving me unsure which to hold on to. Time pressed down on me like a thick, sweaty blanket—oppressive and stifling. As I rose from the edge of the bed, my knees trembled, the choking sensation from the dream still clinging to my windpipe.
As I rummaged aimlessly through drawers, trying to decide what to wear, my hands moved of their own accord. Everything felt too dull, too heavy, too much like me. Nothing I put on felt right, because nothing inside me felt right. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—my eyes still drowsy, yet echoing with a silent scream behind them.
And then, in that very instant, a faint black-and-white silhouette flickered across the mirror's surface. It had eyes, but they weren't human—they stared at me from a void, as if raging storms were trapped behind them, endlessly shifting, yet utterly hollow. My heart lurched. A knot formed in my throat. I tried to look away, but my voice involuntarily broke into a cry:
"Ahh!"
At that moment, the door creaked open slightly, and Aunt Adaline's voice followed:
"Aleda? Are you alright? What happened?"
Trying to steady my breath, I replied, "I'm fine… I was just startled."
She pushed the door open a little wider. "Come on, we're running late. We have to leave," she added.
I gave the mirror one last glance. The silhouette was gone. Only my reflection remained. Yet, the echo of that moment still pounded within my chest.
---
Even as I brushed my hair, I noticed my hand trembling.
My hair stubbornly held on to its disarray from the night before. I chose not to touch it any further and instead tried to grow accustomed to the version of myself in the mirror. But I couldn't. I couldn't get used to anything. Not even myself.
Then I just stood there, in the middle of the room. Hairbrush in hand, one slipper on my foot, a thousand reverberations in my mind. The clinking of cutlery and breakfast chatter drifting from outside clashed completely with the chaos inside me. Someone laughed out there...
How easily they laugh.
And I… I still couldn't shake the question echoing within: "Am I still dreaming?"
Getting ready felt like a battle.
With every outfit I tried, a different version of me emerged.
And each time, I was forced to face her.
"Why are you so afraid?"
"Won't she be there to listen?"
"What if she misunderstands you too?"
Every voice inside me pulled from a different direction. As I moved toward the door, my heart thrashed as if it could no longer fit inside my chest. I took two steps, then turned back—feeling, somehow, that everything was wrong.
But if I didn't go to that meeting… I might never find the words again.
Maybe this was the first crack in the habit I'd formed—of burying everything inside.
And I… I wanted to split it open.
Even if I was afraid.
As I placed my hand on the doorknob, I was still trembling.
But now, amidst all those voices inside, there was another one—quiet, but present:
"Maybe this time, someone will truly hear you."
The moment I stepped outside, my feet met the cold, unyielding stones beneath me.
The train platform's stone tiles were nothing like the dirt paths in my village—these were cold, hard, and unfamiliar.
It was the first time I had ever seen a train, that colossal mass of iron... It stretched toward the sky, as if exhaling its own breath; smoke billowing from its chimney wrapped the city like a grey blanket.
As the train's massive wheels turned slowly, a chill ran through me.
The silence I'd known for years was now replaced by a trembling excitement.
In Karsis, there were no trains—only drifting piles of earth carried by the wind, the hushed trickle of streams, and the distant calls of animals from the barns.
But here, these enormous machines spoke to my heart in a different language—foreign, cold, and a little frightening.
As I walked through the station, I studied people's faces.
Their colours, their liveliness—they all seemed distant and blurred to me, as if a thin mist hovered just above my skin.
Women moved about with lightly puffed hair and skirts in pastel shades, while the men walked in dark suits with fedoras perched neatly on their heads.
But those colours appeared faded, lifeless to my eyes.
The world was here, but I was viewing it from somewhere else entirely.
My aunt gently touched my arm. "Let's sit here," she said.
Still swept up in the storm inside me, I slowly made my way to the dark green velvet seats.
The texture felt unfamiliar, but oddly comforting.
I turned my gaze to the window. Outside was misty and pale.
Beyond the glass, colours blurred into one another—just like my thoughts: hazy, ungovernable, sometimes sharp, sometimes completely lost.
It wasn't like that in the village; everything there was clearer, simpler.
But this place was different.
This city, and this train, whispered an unknown lesson about growing up—about change.
The train's gentle tremble pulsed through my body, and I gripped the edge of the seat tightly.
My fingers trembled; the vibration seemed to compete with the pounding of my heart.
It felt like something new was about to begin at any moment, but I couldn't tell what.
And just then, deep in the most hidden corner of my heart, something flickered—
Perhaps something that had lain silent for years, or maybe something awakening for the very first time.
Maybe… someone really would hear me.
I leaned closer to the window and looked outside.
Trees raced past, branches clashing against one another, leaves rustling gently.
Stones lined the edge of the road, and the walls of houses paraded by, one after the other.
The air was crisp, clouds drifting quickly across the sky.
Questions swirled through my mind, and I couldn't pull my eyes from the road.
Inside me, a strange confusion stirred—swinging between fear, curiosity, and a fragile hope.
I knew this journey would mark a turning point in my life.
And I… I was trying to be ready for it, no matter what it brought.
Just then, across the train from me, a little girl moving between the seats caught my eye.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously, a sly smile playing on her face.
She and her younger brother were busily inspecting the nearby bags.
The girl turned around for a moment and scanned the other passengers.
She seemed to be checking carefully to avoid getting caught.
Then, in a swift motion, her hand reached for one of the bags.
Her fingers were so quick that no one even noticed.
For a moment, my chest tightened.
Were these children stealing?
The little boy turned quickly toward his mother, while the girl locked eyes on another passenger's bag.
They looked like they were playing a game, but the seriousness etched into their faces told a different story—
this was a matter of survival.
I hesitated… then decided to follow them.
Leaning slightly over the edge of my seat, I began to track their movements.
Every step, every little gesture was right before my eyes.
The girl was swiftly tucking a worn-out wallet from her brother's hand into her own pocket.
Her eyes darted around, scanning everything with fierce precision.
The boy, meanwhile, pulled a few old, rusty coins from his pocket and grinned softly, as if it were all just a game.
Their movements were fast, agile, and silent.
They blended into the crowd, cleverly drawing attention away from themselves.
Spotting a handkerchief peeking from a man's pocket, they snatched it in a blink—
and by the time the man noticed, they had already vanished into the sea of people.
My heart was pounding wildly in my chest.
I stepped back a few paces to make sure they hadn't noticed me, holding my breath as I watched them. In that moment, I thought—maybe these petty thefts were their way of surviving.
But I wanted to approach them. I was both curious… and afraid.
Just then, the girl quickly turned a corner with her younger brother.
For the briefest moment, our eyes met.
There was fear in hers—but also a kind of defiance.
In that instant, it felt like a silent agreement passed between us—wordless, but clear.
And then, they vanished into the crowd.
I followed them through the train's narrow corridors, my eyes tracing every movement as they weaved through the throng.
The two of them—she and her little brother—moved silently, but so swiftly it was as if that dark carriage were their playground.
Their hands darted into pockets and bags as they slipped past passengers, taking small items without drawing the slightest attention.
My heart felt like it was about to burst.
I wanted to shout "Stop!" but no sound escaped my lips.
"Why?" I asked myself. Why am I just watching?
But there was no answer.
In that moment, I was simply following them.
They reached for the arm of a man just ahead of me; he flinched, but the children had already darted into the rear corridor.
I followed, the echoes of hurried footsteps mingling with my own rapid breath in the narrow hallway.
But then the crowd thickened, the cluttered carriage blocked my view—
I lost sight of them once more.
"Where did they go?" I whispered to myself, breathless.
A tightness, a rising panic filled my chest.
I had to find them—but how?
Just as I turned around, a cold voice rang out:
"Why are you following me?"
A breath, icy against my neck—I could feel the presence of the voice's owner.
She emerged from a dark corner behind me.
In her eyes burned a defiant flame—not fear, but a piercing warning.
The voice inside me fell silent.
My heart froze.
What could I possibly say?
As I stood face to face with that girl, with the sharp light in her eyes, the voices within me stirred again—faster this time.
One part of me screamed: "Leave. What are you doing here? This isn't right! Walk away!"
But another voice whispered:
"Are they innocent? No… But still—why must it be this way? Why must survival come through theft?"
My heart was torn in two.
My morals, my rules, the world I'd grown up in—all told me to let it go.
But another voice rose within me—one I'd silenced for years, one rooted deep in my longing for justice.
"Are they bad?" I thought. "Maybe not. Maybe the world forced them into this. Maybe… I just don't understand."
But the girl was still there, staring at me, unblinking.
Her voice pulled me back to reality:
"Why are you following me?" she demanded again.
Footsteps echoed again and again beneath the train's wooden floor, the scrape of metal, the murmurs of tightly packed passengers...
Everything was so tangled together that it was hard to breathe.
People brushed past us, bumping into my shoulders without noticing the tension between us.
The train swayed gently on the rails, and with each motion, the voice inside me grew louder.
"They're wrong," said one corner of my mind. "They're stealing. This is a crime. This isn't a game—it's theft."
But another voice trembled, soft and sincere:
"But why? What made them this way? This is their world—they're just trying to survive."
Other passengers hurried by in the narrow corridor.
A little boy laughed gleefully behind us.
A woman clutched her bag tightly to her side.
All of it crashed into Aleda's mind like a storm erupting inside her skull.
The girl was still waiting.
There was a strained patience in her eyes—as if she wasn't expecting judgment, only a sliver of understanding.
"Stealing isn't a game," she said firmly. "This is our reality. Your world's rules don't apply here."
"What even is justice?" my inner voice whispered.
"These children—with their tiny hands—they're trying to steal back their own lives.
Are they guilty? Are they not?
How can I know?"
And in the chaos of the crowd, these questions were drowning.
A hollow space opened up inside me.
The crowd, the noise, the sway of the train—they were all real, yet the chaos within me was far more intense.
"Perhaps justice should exist beyond their way of survival," I thought. "But this train, this crowd, doesn't allow room to understand that."
My eyes flicked quickly around: the worn fedora on the old man standing beside us, the elderly woman twirling prayer beads in her hand, the young mother trembling slightly in her pastel dress, clutching her children's hands.
The girl stared for a long time at something behind me.
Then she grabbed my hand—tightly, almost painfully. Without a word, she pulled me through the crowd toward a quieter, emptier corner of the train. Her steps were fast and determined. In her eyes, there was a mixture of fear and defiance.
She let go of my hand and pulled away sharply.
Her eyes were cold, warning me:
"Don't follow me."
The small child beside her averted his gaze, clearly frightened.
She stood like a wall between me and him—on guard, every word like a sharpened shield.
She turned to leave, but then hesitated—
and spun back around.
She pulled me into the narrow corner of the train and pinned me against it.
"If something goes wrong, no one helps. Got it?"
Her voice was firm, but fragile.
Her brother, hidden in the shadows, avoided my eyes.
I swallowed.
"I understand…" I said slowly, my voice soft and careful.
"I know you have to be this way to survive. We act like this because we're afraid, don't we?"
Something cracked in her eyes.
She clearly hadn't expected those words.
"You don't know," she snapped. "Someone like you could never understand."
I nodded slightly, heart aching, but I kept speaking gently.
"In Karsis, I was like this too. Never trusting anyone, always on guard.
But being alone is worse. Believe me."
She looked at me with hesitation.
A small fracture appeared in her expression.
"Why do you care about me?" she asked, voice edged with mockery.
"Because I'm like you," I said.
"From the outside, we all look different. But deep down, we carry the same pain.
Your brother matters. You protect him—that shows you're strong."
She studied me for a moment.
Then slowly, her shoulders dropped, her hands relaxed.
"I'm Feri," she said at last.
"And he's Lev."
In that moment, even in the cold train carriage, a spark of hope lit up inside me.
This journey wasn't just a path forward—it was my beginning.
Feri and Lev and I… we got along surprisingly well.
We'd lean out the open train doors, letting the wind hit our faces.
And for once, no one stood in our way.
I sat on the edge of a seat in the empty carriage, knees drawn in, hands clasped.
I was waiting—for my thoughts to go quiet, or for the journey to finally end.
Feri leaned against the side of the seat, watching me carefully.
"Where are you even going?" she asked, curious, with a hint of teasing.
"To Velmira," I replied quietly.
"Velmira? What's that?"
"Not a who… a place," I said, my eyes drifting to the trees flashing by the window. "A city."
"And what are you doing there?"
"I'm going to see a healer."
She raised her eyebrows.
"A healer? What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't really know… Someone who fixes you, I guess," I said, shrugging.
"Like a doctor?"
"No… not like a doctor. More like… someone who tries to fix what's inside your heart—with words.
That's what they told me."
Feri pursed her lips.
"What's there to fix? You seem normal to me."
I paused.
Stared out the window again, at the passing fields and trees.
"I'm not normal," I said under my breath.
Feri's expression grew serious.
"Why would you say that?"
I took in a breath.
The words tangled in my throat.
"Sometimes… the voices in my head drown out everything else.
It feels like there's a war in my mind.
One day I wake up happy because nothing matters anymore, and the next I hate everything because it all comes rushing back.
I don't get it.
It's like someone inside me is always yelling… 'You won't get better!'"
Feri tilted her head, listening with interest.
"And when you feel like that, what do you do?"
"I don't know," I admitted honestly.
"Sometimes I just stare at the walls.
Sometimes I don't want to talk at all.
But inside… it's still loud.
Too loud."
"That's… interesting," Feri said.
"I've never felt like that."
"Don't," I replied with a faint smile.
"Sometimes I just want to run away from myself."
"You can't," Feri said quickly.
"Wherever you go, you take yourself with you."
Her little brother Lev was starting to doze off.
Feri gently adjusted his head.
"So… this healer you're going to—
do you think they can quiet those voices in your head?"
"I don't know," I said,
"But I have to try something.
Otherwise… I think my insides will always stay dark."
Feri stayed quiet for a while.
Then in a low voice, she said,
"I think you're stronger than you believe."
In that moment, a voice echoed from behind me:
"Aleda! Aleda!"
It was Aunt Adaline.
Her voice pierced through the hum of the crowd, reaching me with startling clarity.
I turned my head, but couldn't see her; she must've been several carriages away.
A wave of unease swept over me.
Feri's eyes met mine.
"I guess you have to go," she said with a tone that was half teasing, half sincere.
"Yeah… My aunt's looking for me," I said quickly, rising to my feet, feeling a strange weight in my knees.
"Aleda!" she shouted again, her voice growing more frantic.
Just before I left, Feri stepped a little closer.
"This is a long road," she said,
"Everyone's carrying their own story. But you… you seem to see others' stories too."
"Yeah… I really have to go," I replied hurriedly, trying to locate the direction of the voice.
"I think we should meet again," she said suddenly.
"Again?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes. Let's meet again this afternoon, at Velmira station—under the big red-painted clock."
I turned my head and looked through the window at the red, oversized clock in the distance.
"Alright… I'll come," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, just as I heard the voice shout again:
"Aleda!"
Little Lev, still half-asleep, waved his tiny hand.
"Goodbye, Aleda," he said in his thin voice.
"Goodbye, Lev," I replied with a smile.
Feri looked at me and said with firm conviction:
"Don't you dare give up."
I nodded.
Then my aunt's voice rang out once more:
"Aleda, where are you?"
I quickly turned and pushed through the crowd toward her voice.
"Yes, okay… I'm here, Aunt!" I called out, moving through the people at a hurried pace.
Aunt Adaline turned to face me, adjusting the collar of her thick brown coat.
Her expression was stern; her eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Where have you been, Aleda? I've called you so many times!" she snapped, hands on her hips.
"I… I just…" I panted.
"You drifted off again, didn't you?" she scolded.
"If you keep being so careless, who's going to protect you here?"
"I'm sorry…" I murmured.
The moments I'd spent with Feri were still swirling in my mind, but I couldn't bring myself to speak of them.
Aunt shook her head and let out a deep sigh.
"Fine… come on, we're getting off. We've arrived in Velmira."
The train slowed to a halt under the shadow of a massive station building.
As the carriage door opened, a sharp scent filled my nose—
the mingled aroma of coal, oil, and rain on stone tiles.
Aunt Adaline took my hand and pulled me through the crowd, stepping down onto the platform.
When I looked up…
Velmira's grandeur rose before me.
This place was nothing like the village roads of Karsis, so full of natural beauty.
It wasn't dark and grim like Keralin, nor did it carry the warm, earthy scent of Karsis.
Here, everything was stark white, gleaming like marble—tall columns, wide stone staircases, and dazzling, airy boulevards…
All perfectly ordered, yet cloaked in a kind of unsettling grandeur.
Aunt Adaline turned her head slightly and spoke with a faint smile, gazing around:
"Look, Aleda—notice the shops lining the road. People in this city always dress like this. Those pastel dresses behind the window displays, the pleated skirts, the padded jackets… That's their idea of elegance.
See those men standing at the corner? They always hold open newspapers, wearing their felt hats and black-rimmed glasses. And the women—with their towering buns, thick-rimmed spectacles, and netted shopping bags—they walk just like that.
Do you see that little car moving slowly over there? That's called a Beetle. The grey one parked a bit further down is a Mercedes."
As Aunt Adaline pointed these out, I turned my head, trying to take in every detail.
Her words echoed in my ears, and I felt as though I had stepped into the middle of a film scene.
As she walked beside me, she tilted her head slightly toward me.
"This place has surprised you, hasn't it?" she asked with a smile.
"All the buildings… they're so different," I said, almost spellbound by the surroundings.
"This is a city, Aleda. Everything moves fast here. People don't smile—because everyone is always chasing something," she replied, her voice carrying a faint edge.
When we stepped from the stone platform onto the wide avenue, a square surrounded by white marble columns stretched before me.
At its center stood a grand clock tower—its red hour and minute hands visible even from a distance.
"That's the meeting point," Aunt said, nodding toward it.
As we walked along the pavement, a woman brushed past us in a bright green skirt and high heels, nearly running.
Now and then, the notes of a street musician reached my ears, along with the distant hum of a passing van engine in the background.
Aunt Adaline touched my shoulder gently.
"Your eyes look different today, Aleda," she said.
"Different how?" I asked, surprised.
"I don't know... it's like something inside you wants to shine through. Maybe it's the air of Velmira."
I couldn't answer. Everything around me felt so foreign that the words knotted in my throat.
Aunt Adaline wove her way through the crowd, holding my hand tightly, as if letting go for even a moment would mean losing me.
Velmira's stone sidewalks echoed beneath our steps.
The city was still a giant riddle before my eyes—each corner filled with unfamiliar scents, unfamiliar faces…
"We have a guide waiting for us," Aunt said, leaning slightly toward me as she walked.
"We'd never find our way around Velmira on our own—especially not with you."
"A guide?" I asked, raising my brows with curiosity.
"Is he like a healer too?"
Aunt laughed.
"No, little bird. A guide is someone who shows the way—so we don't get lost."
At the street corner, a tall man in a grey coat was waiting.
He had his arms folded in front of him, scanning the area patiently.
Aunt waved to him.
"Mr. Keryn!" she called out.
The man smiled slightly and quickened his pace toward us.
"Ms. Adaline," he greeted her with polite formality.
His eyes flicked briefly toward me.
"And this must be Aleda, yes?"
I gave a small nod.
"Yes… I'm Aleda."
"Is this your first time in Velmira?" he asked.
"Today's the first time I've even seen a train," I said without thinking.
He smiled.
"Then I believe you'll come to like this city. It may be crowded, but its roads are easy—as long as you're not afraid."
Aunt Adaline cut in:
"You'll help us find Lady Laya's house, won't you?"
"Of course. The way there is a bit tricky. Come, let's go together," Keryn replied.
We began walking.
Tall white buildings lined the sidewalk.
One of the shop windows was filled with colorful hats.
I couldn't help myself—I pointed at one of them.
"If you wore that, it would suit you, Aunt," I said with a small smile.
She nodded, and a warm glint appeared in her eyes.
"That imagination of yours… You were always like this back in Karsis. Do you remember how you used to make crowns for the chickens and name them queens?"
I giggled in embarrassment.
"But they were queens!"
Keryn turned his head slightly, letting out a quiet chuckle.
"Sounds like the child in you is still very much alive, Aleda."
"I'm still a child anyway," I said seriously.
"But I don't want to grow up."
Aunt Adaline gave me a brief glance.
"Even if you don't want to, you will," she said gently.
"But don't worry—growing up won't turn you into someone else, as long as you protect your heart."
A few steps later, Keryn spoke. "Miss Laya's house is up those stairs at the corner. She's… well… quite a unique woman."
"Unique?" I asked quickly. "What do you mean?"
"She listens to people. Guides them," Keryn explained. "Everyone in the city calls her a therapist."
"The-ra-pist?" I repeated slowly, the word strange in my mouth. "What does that mean?"
Aunt Adaline smiled faintly. "Think of her like a healer, Aleda. But this time, not of the body—of the heart and the mind. She heals through words."
"She heals by talking?" I asked in disbelief. "Does she say magic words?"
Keryn smiled. "Sometimes the right words are magic, really."
A strange flutter of excitement stirred in me then. As if someone might actually hear all the storms locked inside my heart… but I was afraid, too.
"But what if… what if I say something wrong?" I whispered to my aunt.
"There's no such thing as wrong, Aleda," she said in her softest voice. "Whatever you say, it's still you. And that woman is there to hear you, just as you are."
I nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the cobblestones. Keryn led us into a quiet street paved with white stone. Delicate lace curtains hung from the windows, swaying gently in the breeze.
"There it is," Keryn said, pointing to a tall white door in front of us. Next to it, in gold lettering, was a name: Laya Sorell.
My heart began to pound. "Is she the… healer?"
Aunt Adaline nodded. "Yes. Are you ready?"
In her eyes was the same curiosity I felt, and also a quiet exhaustion that told me—maybe she wasn't so different from me after all. She, too, was hiding her own wounds.
"I think I am," I said, swallowing hard.
My aunt knocked on the door. A soft shuffle came from inside.
The door slowly opened. A tall, graceful woman appeared before us. Her hair was tied in a neat bun, with a few silver strands catching the light. Her cream-colored dress gave her a dignified, timeless air. Her eyes were deep but sharp, her gaze holding a quiet intensity that cut straight through.
"Miss Adaline," she said in a velvet-soft, distant voice. "Welcome. And this must be little Aleda."
Hearing my name, I dipped my head shyly. "Hello…" I said, though my voice came out barely audible. I hid my hands behind my back and rubbed my toes along the rug, tracing invisible lines.
The woman smiled. There was such warmth in that smile that the elegant wall behind her softened ever so slightly. "I'm Laya," she said. "Come in—it's cold outside."
The moment I stepped through the doorway, it was as if I had entered a spell. High ceilings, polished wooden floors gleaming, golden-framed paintings on the walls… It felt like the threshold to another world. A crystal chandelier sparkled in the center of the room. Porcelain teacups and delicately trimmed plates filled the glass cabinets. Heavy velvet curtains framed the windows, so thick they seemed to swallow your fingertips.
"Miss Adaline, I'd like a brief word with you first. Aleda, would you wait here for a moment?" Laya asked.
I nodded, though my eyes stayed glued to the large vase in the corner. "Are those flowers real?" I whispered to myself. I leaned closer to smell them, only to realize they were plastic. My lips curled with slight disappointment. "I wish they were real…"
Miss Laya and my aunt disappeared behind a glass-paned door.
Left alone in the salon, my eyes wandered. I imagined the portraits on the walls were watching me. "Do you live here too?" I whispered to them, then chuckled softly to myself.
I approached the old gramophone on the table. "Do these really make sound?" I muttered. As I reached toward it, I caught my own reflection in its shiny lid and paused. "I look kind of crooked in here," I murmured, pressing my forehead against the glass, peering closer.
Then I turned to the bookshelf in the corner. I traced the golden lettering on the spines of thick, dusty books. I was tempted to pull one out—then hesitated. "What if it falls?"
Suddenly, a small glass snow globe on the table by the door caught my eye. Inside was a tiny house, surrounded by sparkling white flakes like snow. I picked it up and gave it a shake. As the snowstorm swirled inside, my eyes widened. "Lev would've loved this…" I whispered and shook it again.
"What are you up to over there?" came a voice behind me. I turned to find Miss Laya watching me. There was a gentle smile on her lips and kindness in her eyes.
"Nothing… just looking," I said, crumpling my skirt in my fists as I carefully placed the globe back.
"Curiosity is a wonderful thing," said Miss Laya, without a hint of adult judgment. "Come along. It's time for us to talk."
She opened the door to a cozy room. A dark green armchair sat beside a small table, and a soft rug covered the floor. Sunlight spilled through the window, bathing the room in calm.
"Go on, sit down," she said. "This can be your space."
The armchair was so soft I sank right into it. I swung my legs gently while Miss Laya sat at her desk and opened a slim notebook. Twirling a pen between her fingers, she looked at me with quiet attention.
"We'll begin whenever you're ready," she said.
She set the notebook on the edge of her desk. Her face remained calm, but the focus in her gaze sharpened. She leaned back, resting her hands on her knees, and spoke gently:
"Sometimes the things we keep hidden inside are like invisible stones. Carrying them can weigh us down in silence. But when we begin to speak of them, they begin to shrink. So let's find the first stone that feels heavy. Are you ready, Aleda?"
"I don't feel ready. But… I'll try."
Aleda stopped swinging her legs. She lowered her head, then looked toward the light streaming through the window. There was a slight tremble at the corners of her lips, but in her eyes, something far older than her years flickered.
"Sometimes," Aleda began, swallowing before continuing,
"Sometimes when my feelings get too heavy and there's no one around, when I'm alone on a mountaintop, or in a room, or maybe in a field… those feelings suddenly become sharp enough to destroy me. Then I cry. Not so they'll disappear—just so they'll soften."
Miss Laya leaned in slightly, her eyes full of compassion and curiosity. Her voice was soft and patient:
"Crying is sometimes like breathing… It releases the weight inside. But tell me, when you feel these emotions, do they scare you? Or can you speak with them as if they were your friends?"
Aleda shifted forward on the edge of the armchair, clasping her hands together.
"Sometimes I think the voices in my head will never be quiet. But… I don't want them to go completely silent," she said, and then added,
"Because maybe the only thing left of the people we love… is the echo of their voices inside us."
Mrs. Laya tilted her head slightly, an expression of both surprise and admiration on her face.
"That sentence… it belongs to a heart far beyond its years. How many adults could express something so true in such simple words?"
Aleda narrowed her eyes, watching her intently.
"But I'm not an adult..." she said, pausing for a moment. "Maybe I just speak this way because I think too much."
Then she added, "Haven't you ever had a patient who overthinks everything? I met someone like me once. People like that believe they know everything about the world, because they've imagined every possibility as if it would happen to them. And maybe… maybe they're right."
The moment Aleda finished her sentence, she began taking deep breaths.
Laya rose slowly and walked toward the window. She gently parted the curtains, allowing the sunlight to spill more warmly into the room. Her voice, calm and reassuring, broke the quiet:
"Aleda... I don't believe you're as alone as you think. But it's clear you've carried burdens far beyond your years. We can begin to unravel those together. Now—can you tell me about the heaviest of them? I'm listening."
Aleda tilted her head slightly. Her eyes lingered on Laya's face for a moment before dropping to the floor. She twisted her hands together, her delicate fingers disappearing into her palms. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, trembling at the edges:
"I used to have friends…" she paused, as though the words caught on her breath. "But... sometimes friends disappear, don't they? They vanish... vanish and never seem to come back."
Laya nodded silently, offering a gaze that invited her to go on.
Aleda drew a deep breath, as though dragging the words from her chest.
"Amine…" she said, her eyes momentarily unfocused. "She was my best friend. She lived just across the street. Her house—covered in ivy, windows always lit... It stood opposite ours. Karsis, our village... it was like a place out of a story. Nestled in the lap of the mountains, surrounded by pine forests. In spring, the streets would be blanketed with daisies. Red geraniums adorned every balcony. Wooden doors painted in warm hues. The sky was bluer there—more alive. When the sun rose behind the mountains, it was like a golden veil was being drawn across the village."
Her breathing quickened; her words began to tumble over one another.
"Amine and I played hide-and-seek every day. We'd always climb the hills... or sit beneath the pines. That day... that day the sky was so blue. So... so blue. I remember it clearly. We were playing hide-and-seek. I hid behind a tree. Then I went looking for her… but she was gone. I couldn't find her. At first, I laughed, because she always hid too well, always liked to play tricks… I thought she was joking. I called her name—'Amine! Amine!'—but there was no reply."
Laya leaned in slightly. "And what did you feel in that moment, Aleda?"
Without blinking, Aleda continued in a rush:
"My heart… my heart was racing. My feet struck the ground hard, I could feel the earth. I looked everywhere. Behind trees, beneath stones, along the riverbank… I called her name, but only my own voice echoed back. Echoing, echoing… it was as if the forest was calling back at me. But she wasn't there. It was like... like the sky opened up and took her. Took her and left nothing behind."
She fell silent for a heartbeat, then murmured as if to herself:
"They said maybe she fell into the river… or was taken by wolves. No. No… Amine wasn't afraid. She would run, yes—but she wasn't afraid. So why didn't she come back? Why?"
Laya studied her closely, her voice gentle:
"Did you tell the village?"
"I ran," Aleda whispered, her eyes briefly closing. "I ran until my knees bled. I ran into the village screaming, 'Amine's gone!' Everyone... everyone went into the forest. With torches, sticks… They searched for hours. No sound. No trace. Only wind… only the birds. Then they said… they said she might've fallen into the river. Or the woods swallowed her. But I... I still hear her voice. That day, when she was hiding, she shouted, 'Come find me, Aleda!' Now, when I wake up at night… I still hear that voice. It's like... she's calling to me."
Suddenly, as though speaking to an invisible self, she whispered:
"Was I the one who hid? Or was it her? Maybe I never truly found her. Maybe I never truly knew her. She disappeared… didn't she? Or maybe not. Maybe… maybe somewhere, she's still waiting for me."
Laya listened in stillness, then quietly closed the thin notebook on her desk. She stepped forward, her voice not that of a clinician, but of someone cloaked in empathy:
"Aleda," she said gently, "losing Amine wasn't your fault. Sometimes, life delivers losses we cannot comprehend. But that doesn't diminish the truth—that her love, and her memory, still live on inside you."
Aleda lowered her head, her hands now clasped tightly. Laya knelt to her level, bringing their eyes in line.
"Now… take a deep breath. Go on. Like that. When these feelings come, don't push them away. Try to look at them. They don't come to frighten you. They come to speak to you."
Aleda drew in a long, shaking breath. Tears slid down her cheeks.
"But sometimes… I'm so scared," she whispered.
Laya nodded with a soft smile.
"To be afraid is one of the purest proofs of being human. And you, my dear... you're far stronger than you know."
There was a silence between them, long enough to be comforting. Aleda's breathing slowed. Her hands began to unclench. Laya rose and walked to the door. "Miss Adaline?" she called softly.
A few moments later, Adaline entered the room. Laya's voice took on a tone of calm resolve:
"It would be helpful for Aleda to return, perhaps for a longer session. She needs time. Would a few weeks from now, same day and hour, work for you?"
Adaline nodded. "Of course, whenever you feel is best."
"In that case, let's say a few weeks from today," Laya replied. "For now, that's enough."
Aleda slowly rose from the armchair. Laya reached out, gently brushing a hand over her head.
"Take care of yourself, little warrior," she whispered.
As Aleda stepped out of the room, she turned back one last time to look at Laya. A sentence echoed quietly within her:
"Perhaps healing begins when someone truly listens... Perhaps I'm being heard for the very first time."