I returned to the orchard the next day.
The sa ti. The sa curve in the path. The wind carried the sa scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. But Clara wasn't there.
The bench stood empty, half-swallowed by moss. The sister who had spoken with her the day before was tending a row of cold-weather herbs. When I asked about Clara, she gave a short shrug.
"She wasn't feeling well," she said. "Stayed ho today."
I thanked her and walked back toward the village, though the road felt longer than before.
The next morning, I returned again.
Still no Clara.
This ti, no one knew where she was. The orphanage matron offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "She must be visiting a friend," she said. "Or helping her father."
Each excuse was plausible.
Each a little too convenient.
By the third day, I walked the entire periter of the retreat grounds. Asked at the chapel. Sat on the bench near the orchard and watched the wind bend through the trees. But no glimpse. Not sound. Nothing.
That night, I dread of clocks ticking out of sync. So too fast. So pausing mid-click. I woke to a cold room and the faint feeling that I was forgetting sothing important.
On the fourth morning, I wrote in my journal.
I don't think she's avoiding .
But sothing is.
The ink dried slowly. The window beside my desk had frosted over. I rubbed a patch clear with my sleeve and stared out into the gray.
Sothing was wrong.
Not with Clara.
With this village.
Later that afternoon, I wandered past the edge of the retreat. Past the sanatorium's gardens, past the road that led to the river. I didn't know where I was going. I only knew I had to keep walking. Sothing pulled at the back of my mind like an unfinished sentence.
Near dusk, I returned to town. Cold. Tired. But less restless.
I returned to the boarding house just after dusk. My hands were stiff from the cold, and my coat clung damply to my shoulders. The hallway light flickered when I stepped inside.
I didn't write. I didn't eat. I sat by the window and watched the frost reclaim the glass.
The next morning, I boarded the early tram back to Berlin.
It wasn't a decision so much as a surrender. I hadn't seen Clara in days, and whatever quiet pull had brought to Weißer Hirsch had gone still. If she was avoiding , she had her reasons. If sothing else was interfering, I couldn't na it yet.
I arrived back in Charlottenburg by late afternoon.
Two days later, I scheduled another appointnt with Dr. Eberhardt.
***
She welcod with the sa polite professionalism as before. Her office was warm, lit by a low amber lamp that softened the sharp corners of the room. The ticking clock on the bookshelf was slower than I rembered—deliberate, almost hypnotic.
She gestured for to sit. I did.
"You look tired," she said, her voice calm.
I hesitated. "It's been a strange few days."
She nodded. "Dreams again?"
"Sothing like that." I hesitated. "I took a trip. To Dresden."
Her brows lifted slightly, but not in surprise. "For what purpose?"
"I needed to find her... Clara."
She didn't respond imdiately. Just watched . Then, "And did you find her?"
"I did. We spoke. Briefly. It felt... strange. Like sothing about her was already known to ."
"Familiarity isn't always mory," she said. "The mind attaches aning to patterns, to nas, to faces. Especially when it wants answers."
"It didn't feel like a pattern," I said. "It felt personal."
She tilted her head. And how did it affect the dreams?"
"They've quieted," I admitted. "But not stopped. And the feeling hasn't gone away."
Dr. Eberhardt leaned back slightly. "Then perhaps Clara represents sothing unresolved. Sothing your mind wants to fix through recognition."
"Or maybe she rembers, too."
Her eyes stayed on a mont longer. Then she picked up her pen.
"mory is fragile, Matthias. And sotis it protects us by refusing to return."
Her voice was gentle. asured.
But I felt sothing shift in the room. A tension. Like she knew more than she was saying.
And had every intention of keeping it buried.
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