"Blue skies. That's the first thing I remember. The endless blue above Skrylimpo-4—vast and open like a promise waiting to be broken. Clouds hung there, soft and thick, like someone had brushed them into existence with lazy strokes of a paintbrush, all fluff, and light. And the Skimpock birds—ugly, purple creatures with long necks and crooked beaks—flapped through the air, careless and loud. They didn't have a worry in the world. They were free."
I pause, my gaze dropping to the polished grain of the wood floor beneath me. The surface is smooth and cool, a small comfort. But that freedom didn't last.
"They flew away," I say quietly, voice barely more than a whisper. "No… it wasn't like they just left. It was like the air itself shoved them out. Like the sky didn't want them anymore."
Dr. Meconly's voice drifts through the room—soft, careful. Like she's trying not to startle some wounded creature. The faint flicker of a holo-display cycles behind her, shifting between peaceful forest scenes and ocean waves—technology meant to calm but somehow only reminding me how trapped I feel. "Very good, Mason. What else do you remember?"
My fingers twitch in my lap, restless. I rub my thumbs in slow circles—a small anchor in the swirling fog inside my head. Beneath the quiet buzz of the room's overhead lights, I catch an almost imperceptible low hum—like static pulsing beneath my thoughts. I blink hard, but it doesn't fade.
"I don't know," I murmur. "My head's starting to hurt. Everything's… foggy. I can see the sky, the clouds, the birds… but everything beyond that…" I gesture vaguely near my temple, "It's like a thick gray fog rolls in. I try to look through it, but it just closes tighter. Like it's hiding something I'm not supposed to see."
She hums softly—a sound caught somewhere between encouragement and worry—and her pen scratches quietly across the page, whispering secrets I can't hear.
The air smells faintly of old books and antiseptic—a clinical scent, but worn and tired, like too many tears have fallen here.
"That's enough for today," she says gently, voice like a feather brushing my skin. "We'll try again next time."
I nod, but my mind still drifts, lost somewhere in the haze. "Okay… Hey, Dr. Meconly?"
"Yes, Mason?"
"What's the point of all this? These sessions… these meetings?"
Her gaze lifts from the notebook. Calm. Professional. But not cold. Behind her eyes, I catch a flicker of something else—concern? Fear? Maybe even a warning. She doesn't answer right away. Instead, a small datapad tucked beneath her notes softly glows before she slides it out of sight. "Your parents are worried. They say the nightmares are keeping you awake. That you're having trouble focusing at school."
"Oh." I look down at my hands. A faint tremor runs through my fingers. "Right. The nightmares."
She waits, giving me space. Then carefully, "Tell me about them."
I draw a shaky breath. "I'm in a field. Red crops taller than my waist. Me and some other kids—we're lying back, watching clouds float by."
The memory stirs a faint smile. "It feels safe. Like nothing bad's happened. Like everything is exactly as it should be."
"And then?" she asks softly.
"I'm not there anymore." My voice tightens. "Smoke everywhere. The sky's red—no clouds left. The crops… gone. The other kids… gone. I'm running, trying to get to a city, but everything's on fire. Buildings fall. Screaming fills the air. I don't know what to do. I never know what to do."
Her pen races, but she looks up sharply. "You're crying."
I blink, surprised. My fingers brush against my cheek—wet.
"I am?" My voice cracks. "I didn't even feel it."
Her blue eyes meet mine—steady, calm. But behind them, something flickers. Pity? Fear? Like she's scared of what I might remember.
"Mason," she says gently, "you know nightmares aren't real, right? They're just dreams. They'll fade."
I nod because that's what I'm supposed to say. But the nightmares feel more real than anything else. The only real thing.
She closes her notebook and offers a small, practiced smile. "That's all for today, Mason. Good work."
I stand slowly, legs heavy and disconnected, like I'm moving through water. The room is too quiet. The buzzing lights hum low, a thread of tension beneath the calm. I hear the faint, almost electronic tick of the clock—off by a fraction of a second, like time itself is slightly warped here.
I push open the door.
The waiting room is the same—bland off-white walls, plasticky chairs that stick to your skin if you sit too long. Lemon scent hangs in the air—like someone tried too hard to make it feel clean. A nearby info terminal cycles quietly through headlines about rising tensions on Corven and nearby colonies. I don't understand the words, but I catch "military buildup," "resource shortage," and "border conflicts." Something bigger is out there.
My parents sit side by side, backs stiff, eyes snapping up the second I appear.
Well—my parents.
That's what everyone calls them. What I'm supposed to call them. They're kind. Patient. But I don't really know them. Not the way I know the sky. Not the way I know the fire.
They stand, expectant smiles waiting. But my eyes catch something else.
A girl, maybe my age, sitting cross-legged by the window. Surrounded by scuffed plastic blocks, humming softly as she stacks them, building something crooked and lopsided. Her dark hair falls over her face like a curtain. But it's the color of her shirt—bright yellow, like the sun just before it burns out—that stops me.
No. It's more than that.
Something stirs deep inside me—a pluck at a string I didn't know existed. Not recognition. Not quite. But a pull. A need.
When I meet her eyes, a faint electric hum prickles at my skin, like the air itself is charged. I blink, but it doesn't fade.
I tug on Dad's sleeve. "Can I… go play with her?"
He blinks, surprised. Mom gives a small, warm smile. "Of course, honey. Go ahead."
As I step forward, I hear Mom whisper behind me, "You talk to Dr. Meconly. I'll stay here and keep an eye on him."
The door clicks shut behind them.
The girl looks up as I approach. Her eyes are wide, curious—green and sharp, like spring grass after a storm.
"Hey," she says with a crooked grin. "Wanna help me build a tower that reaches space?"