The world returned in fractured pieces. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the muted hum of a climate control system, the soft weight of a cashmere blanket over my legs. I was on a leather couch in a room with no personality, a space designed for transient states of being. White walls, a single abstract painting that meant nothing, and a large window looking out onto a manicured, featureless garden. It was a place to disappear.
Julian sat in an armchair opposite me, a cup of tea steaming untouched on the table between us. He wasn't looking at me, giving me the space to reassemble myself. The terror from the street corner still clung to me, a cold, slick film on my skin. The memory of staring at my own handwriting and seeing only alien symbols was more violating than any of Victor’s betrayal
