Chapter 5 - Trust
987 Words
The dreams did not stop.
They came every night, identical and merciless—people falling, the king bleeding under her blade, her own hands painted in red. Each time she woke gasping, certain the visions were no longer dreams but memories.
Anna stopped going to the schoolyard. She could still see the boy’s startled face when she nearly struck him, still feel the splintered stick in her grip. If not for the faintest flicker of clarity that pulled her back, she might have…
She could not finish the thought.
Since then, the man haunted her days. Not in flesh, not in action—but in her mind.
At the market, she sensed his eyes.
At the well, she felt his shadow.
Even in the silence of her room, she swore she heard his footsteps outside her door.
And yet, when she turned, there was nothing.
No one watching.
No one lurking.
The truth was plain: he was not following her. But her mind, frayed and hungry for threats, twisted every glimpse of him into suspicion.
It came to a breaking point one evening, when the fog clung low between the houses. Anna walked quickly, basket clutched to her chest, when the man stepped into her path.
Her stomach dropped. Her heart thundered.
“You look tired,” he said softly. Not accusing. Not mocking. Just observing.
“May I walk with you?”
Anna froze. Her hands shook against the wicker handle. “Why?”
He hesitated, then gave a small, almost weary smile. “Because no one should carry this much alone.” He paused, then offered, “My name is Andrew.”
The sound of his name rattled her. Too human. Too real.
“I don’t know you,” she whispered, every muscle begging her to run.
“That’s alright,” Andrew replied. His voice was calm, grounded—so unlike the storm in her head. “You don’t have to. I only want to help. I’ve seen it before: the sleepless nights, the fear that eats you alive, the… confusion between what’s real and what isn’t.”
Her breath caught. The words cut too close.
“I’m a physician,” he continued gently. “A psychiatrist. If you’ll allow me, I can help you understand what’s happening.”
Anna’s chest tightened. The word “psychiatrist” echoed like a curse. He knows. He knows I’m broken. He’ll expose me. He’ll lock me away.
Andrew must have seen the panic in her face, because he lifted his hands slowly, showing they were empty. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Only when you’re ready.”
He turned as though to leave, but Anna—without meaning to—spoke.
“Why… why would you care?”
The fog muted everything. His outline was almost swallowed by it. “Because I know what happens when no one does.” His voice cracked, faintly, as if he spoke from memory.
Something in her chest shifted.
For the first time, someone had spoken her pain aloud. For the first time, someone had not called her cursed—but human.
She did not move closer, but neither did she run. And that, perhaps, was the first thread of trust.
Andrew dipped his head in a quiet farewell. “When you’re ready, Miss Anna. Not before.”
Then he disappeared into the fog, leaving her trembling between hatred and longing.
The days blurred after that night in the fog. Anna avoided him at first, half hoping she would never see him again, half aching for his voice that did not condemn.
Then one morning, as she returned from the well, she saw Andrew waiting at the corner. Not lurking, not hunting—just standing there, as though he had all the time in the world.
When their eyes met, he smiled—not the kind of smile that demanded something in return, but the kind that simply existed.
Something fragile in her broke. Against her better judgment, against the shrieking of her own mind, Anna spoke.
“Would you… like some tea?”
Andrew blinked, surprised. “If you’re offering, I’d be honored.”
Her hands trembled as she led him down the crooked path to her cottage. She could not remember the last time she had opened her door for anyone. Not since the whispers had begun. Not since the visions had grown teeth.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and herbs. She busied herself at the small hearth, putting the kettle on, slicing a heel of bread that had hardened at the edges. She brushed it with oil and warmed it over the fire. Her movements felt clumsy, like remembering a dance she had once known long ago.
“I don’t remember,” she said, almost to herself, “the last time I cooked for someone.”
Andrew, seated quietly at her wooden table, did not laugh or pity her. He only nodded. “Then I’m grateful you chose me.”
The words startled her. Grateful? To sit with her, the cursed one? To drink her tea?
She placed the cups down, her hands shaking so much that the liquid nearly spilled. For a moment, she feared he would recoil, see her as broken. But Andrew only wrapped his hands around the clay cup, inhaled the steam, and smiled softly.
The bread was simple, rough, not much more than flour and salt. Yet when he tore a piece and tasted it, he looked at her as though it were a gift.
They ate in silence at first, broken only by the crackle of fire. Anna’s mind kept tugging—he’ll poison you, he’ll laugh at you, he’s here to study you like a specimen. But each time she looked up, Andrew was simply… human.
No strange glances. No hidden malice. Just presence.
And for the first time in years, Anna did not feel entirely alone in her own home.
- Writer
