The clinic was quiet. Cleaner than I rembered.
Helene led us down a narrow hall and into a room near the back. No windows. Just a lamp hanging low from the ceiling and a pair of mismatched chairs set opposite a long couch. The walls were lined with books—psychology, physiology, dream studies, and a few in languages I didn't recognize. A kettle set warming near a small stove.
"Please," she said, gesturing to the seats. "You're not patients, I won't insult you by treating this like a session."
Clara and Konrad sat. I stayed standing.
Helene didn't seem surprised.
"I rember you," she said, looking at . "But you're... different."
"I rember more now," I said.
She studied for a mont, then turned to the others. "So. You're not here for yourselves, but for soone else."
Clara nodded. "We're looking for soone. We don't know who. Only that he's... like us."
"Experiencing things others don't," I added.
Helene folded her hands in her lap. "And you believe this person would have found their way to ."
Konrad spoke for the first ti since we'd entered. "It's possible."
Helene's eyes lingered on him briefly, then returned to .
"You're not wrong," she said.
Clara leaned forward. "So you've seen others?"
Helene was quiet for a mont. Then she stood and walked to one of the shelves. She traced her fingers along the spines before pulling a small, worn notebook.
"I can't share nas," she said, "but I can say this—there are patterns. Individuals with unusual perception. Temporal dissonance. Repeating numbers. Visions of people they've never t."
She sat the notebook down on the table between us.
"I've kept notes. Nothing definitive. But the threads are there."
"Do you believe them?" I asked.
"I believe perception is real," Helene said. "Even if it doesn't follow expected rules."
Clara glanced at . I could feel the question in her gaze.
"Have you seen soone recently?" I asked. "Soone new?"
Helene tapped the notebook once, then looked up. "There was one. A doctoral candidate. Quiet. Precise. He ntioned monts slipping—like ti was folding just slightly wrong. He reminded of you."
Clara leaned forward. "Can you tell us anything more about him?"
Helene hesitated. "He ntioned his place of studies once..." she looked through her notes, "Humboldt University of Berlin. That's all I can offer."
I exchanged a glance with Clara. "That's my university."
Helene nodded. "Then it's possible you've seen him. Or walked right past him."
Konrad folded his arms. "Do you think he's like us?"
Helene tilted her head, thoughtful. "I think he's trying not to be. But I've seen the sa weight behind his eyes. Sa hesitation between words."
Helene closed the notebook gently. "I can't promise you answers. But I believe there's more than coincidence in who you're rembering—and who you're eting."
She looked at each of us in turn. "If he is connected, you'll know when you see him. And if he isn't... I'm still here."
The weight of her words lingered, not heavy, but slow. Clara glanced over at —uncertain, questioning.
Helene didn't move to dismiss us. She simply sat, poised, as if waiting for sothing unsaid to settle in the air.
"I have a question," Clara said suddenly. "Why do you do this?"
Helene blinked. "Do what?"
"Help people like us," Clara said. "Most doctors dismiss what they can't explain."
Helene's lips curved faintly. "I don't see what I do as helping. I see it as... observing."
Konrad's posture shifted subtly. "That doesn't answer the question."
Helene rose, walking toward the stove. She poured the remaining tea into her own cup, then leaned against the counter.
"When I was a child," she began, "my mother suffered from visions. No one believed her. They locked her in a place with stone walls and wide windows. She died believing things no one else could see."
The room went quiet.
"I suppose part of want to know if she was right."
We didn't say anything. Not at first.
"She wasn't the only one," Helene added. "I've seen others. You'd be surprised how many."
"Where are they now?" I asked.
She turned back to face . "Most are gone. So to ti. So to fear. And so... I still think about."
There was sothing in her voice. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Sothing held in reserve.
***
Helene didn't stop us when we made to leave. But just before I stepped through the door, she called:
"Matthias."
I turned.
She looked at with an expression I couldn't quite read. "If your mories begin to shift again—if the thread pulls—you know where to find ."
I nodded. "I do."
The street outside had grown darker since we entered. Fog crept in along the gutters, soft and pale. We walked in silence until the clinic faded from view.
Clara spoke first.
"She didn't lie."
"No," I said. "But she didn't tell us everything either."
Konrad's hand rested on the strap of his rifle. "She knows more than she's letting on."
"She wants to be needed," I said. "And right now... we need her."
Ahead, the lamps flickered in the distance.
We turned toward the university.
The walk was slow. The city had grown quieter than I rembered, even for this hour. Our footsteps echoed in a way that made feel exposed.
Clara walked beside , hands in her coat pockets. Her gaze moved between the street signs and the people we passed—few, but present. She was watching for sothing. Or soone.
"I'm not sure how we approach him," she said finally.
"We'll figure that out after we find him," I replied.
Konrad walked just behind us. "Direct," he said. "He won't respond to shadows."
Clara glanced back. "And what if we're wrong."
"Then we move on," he said. "But we need to see."
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